Wa^YouDfl 


CHARLES    HEMSTR^EET 


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3  1822  01250  yui^ 


i 


Art-**.  /  (j*  a 


When   Old  New  York 
Was  Young 


When  Old  New  York 
Was  Young 


BY 


CHARLES    HEMSTREET 

Author  of  "Nooks  and   Corners  of  Old  New  York 


ILLUSTRATED 


NEW   YORK 

CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S   SONS 

1902 


Copyright,    1902, 
Bv    Charles    Hemstreet 


All  Rights    Reserved 


Published,    April,    1902 


Trow  Directory 

Printing   <S^  Bookbinding  Company 
New  York 


CONTENTS 


The  Autobiography  of   Bowling  Green 

Half  an   Hour  on   Golden   Hill 

Kip's   Bay  and   Kip's   House 

The   Inland    Road  to   Greenwich 

Christmas   in   Old   New   Amsterdam 

About  Old  St.    Paul's      .... 

Greenwich     Village     and     the     "  Mou 
Trap  " 

A    Reading  of   Historic  Tablets 

The  Story  of  Chatham   Square  . 

Some   Islands  of  the   Fast   River 

Old-Time    Pheatres 

BouwERiE   Village  and   its   Graveyard 

The   Battery   and  the   Fort     . 


SE- 


l 

33 
45 
59 

73 

89 

99 
117 

^33 
149 

167 
179 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Around  the  Collect   Pond 191 

The   Pleasant   Days  of  Cherry   Hill   .     .   205 

Some   Forgotten   Byways -227 

Where  Silence   Reigns 243 

Town  Markets  from  their  Earliest  Days   259 
Old-Fashioned   Pleasure-Gardens     .     .     .   277 

Spring  Valley    Farm 295^ 

Old   Churches 3^7 

Chelsea  Village 33^ 

Chronological  Table  of  Important  Dates  347 
Index 349 


[vi] 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


PACE 


Autobiography  of  Bowling  Green  ....  i 
"Petticoat  Lane  led  into  Bowling  Green"  .  5 
Old  Tavern  opposite  Bowling  Green,  1765  .  7 
Bowling  Green  after  the  Revolution  ...  11 
The  Government  House  which  Faced  Bowl- 
ing Green 14 

"  Fly  "   Market 25 

De   Smit's   Vly 29 

Kip's   Bay  and    Kip's    House 34 

Kip's   House ^^ 

A  City    Building  in   the   Days  of  Jacob    Kip  39 

The   City  in    Kip's   Time 43 

Inland    Road   to   Greenwich 46 

The   Bowery    Fifty   Years  Ago 53 

Christmas  in   Old   New  Amsterdam       ...  60 

The   Water  Gate  at  the  Foot  of  Wall   Street  62 

Whitehall,   Governor  Stuyvesant's    House       .  64 

The  Canal  and   Fish    Bridge  in   Broad  Street  67 

[vii] 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


PAGE 


The  Water  Front  on   the   East   River        .      .      70 

About  Old  St.   Paul's 74 

Broadway  below  St.  Paul's  Chapel,  1834  .  77 
Washington's     Pew     in     St.     Paul's     Chapel, 

1789 79 

St.  Paul's  Chapel  and  the  Broadway  Stages  81 
An   Old   Home  in   Greenwich  Village  ...      92 

A   Reading  of  Historic  Tablets 100 

Washington's  Farewell  in  Fraunces's  Tavern  106 
*'  Stadt  Huvs  "  at  Coenties  Slip  ....  107 
The   Ruins  of  Trinity  Church  after  the  Great 

Fire  in    1776 109 

Middle   Dutch   Church 1 1  i 

Lispenard's   Meadow 114 

The  Story   of  Chatham   Square 118 

Chatham   Square   in    181 2 121 

Chatham   Square  in    1858 125 

Some   Islands  of  the   East   River       .      .      .         134 

Mill   Rock,    Hell   Gate 141 

Hell   Gate 143 

Old-Time   Theatres 150 

Chatham   Street,   near  where   "  Kirby  used  to 

die" 152 

[viii] 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

FAG  5, 

Niblo's   Garden 154 

Italian     Opera     House,     later     the     National 

Theatre,   Leonard   Street,    1833       .      .      .156 

Barnum's    Museum 159 

Plan   of  the    First   Park   Theatre,    1796       .      .160 

On   the   Bloomingdale   Road 161 

Corporal  Thompson's  Madison  Cottage,  1852, 

on   the  Site  of  the    Fifth   x'\venue    Hotel    162 

The    Hippodrome,    1853 163 

The   Village  Streets  and  the  City   Streets        .    168 
The    old    Pear    Tree    planted    by    Governor 
Stuyvesant,  corner  of  Third  Avenue  and 
Thirteenth   Street 173 

St.    Mark's   Church   in    1799 175 

The   Battery,  Old  and   New 180 

Interior  of  Fort,  from    Bowling  Green,  show- 
ing Governor's    House  and   Church    .      .184 

The    P^ortand   Battery   in    1740 189 

The  Five  Points,  Fifty  Years  Ago  .  .  .193 
Stone .  Bridge  at  Broadway  and  Canal  Street  199 
The   Pleasant   Days  of  Cherry    Hill       .      .      .   106 

Washington's   House 109 

The    Franklin    House 211 

[ix] 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


PACE 


The  Old  Walton   House 215 

No,    7    Cherry    Street    in    1825.     The    First 

House  in   New  York   Lighted  by   Gas   .  217 

Pearl   Street,    Near  Franklin  Square,  in    1835  223 

Some   Forgotten   Byways 228 

Broadway  at   Bowling  Green  in   1825   .      .      .  235 

The  City   Hotel 237 

Old    Park    Theatre,  which    gave    a    name   to 

Theatre  Alley 238 

St.  John's  Chapel  and  Park 239 

AVhere  Silence  Reigns 244 

Some  City   Houses  when   the  Old  Graveyard 

was  Young 249 

The  Dead-House  in  the  Corner 255 

The  Forgotten  Graveyard 257 

Town  Markets  from  their  Earliest  Days     .     .  260 

Lower  Market,  1746 263 

Washington  Market,  1859 269 

Franklin  Market,  Old  Slip,  in  1820.     .     .      .  273 

Old-Fashioned  Pleasure-Gardens  .....  278 
Broadway,  between   Duane  and  Pearl   Streets, 

1807 ^79 

Broadway  at  Murray  Street,  1820      .     .     .     .281 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

Contoit's  "New  York  Garden,"  1828  .  .  .284 
New  York  Hospital  in  Broadway  ....  286 
Sperry's  Garden  on  Bowery  Lane  in  1803  .      .291 

Spring  Valley  Farm 296 

Brevoort   House,  Shot-Tower,   and    De   Voor 

Farmhouse ^99 

The  Shot-Tower  Sixty  Years  Ago  .  ■  ■  ■  3^3 
The   .Kissing     Bridge,    Second     Avenue    and 

Fifty-Second  Street 309 

The  Beekman  House 3^3 

Old  Churches 3^8 

Garden  Street  Church •      -3-3 

North  Dutch  Church 3^7 

Chelsea  Village 33^ 


[xi] 


THE    AUTOBIOGRAPHY    OF 
BOWLING    GREEN 


-J     L 


WtOHiO'j/^APH 


0\>iu$t41t 


THE    AUTOBIOGRAPHY    OF 
BOWLING    GREEN 

IT  has  been  a  source  of  wonder  how  the 
Bowling  Green  has  maintained  its  iden- 
tity for  three  centuries.  Men  have  been 
born,  have  become  famous,  have  died  and 
been  forgotten  ;  stately  buildings  have  been 
erected,  have  crumbled  away  and  mingled 
with  the  dust;  but  the  land  now  called  the 
Bowling  Green  has  remained  undisturbed. 

It  was  an  open  space  when  the  first  white 
man  landed  on  the  Island  of  Manhattan ;  it 
is  the  same  open  space  to-day.  It  was  called 
the  Bowling  Green  first  in  1733,  and  has 
never  been  called  anything  else,  even  though 
no  bowling  has  been  done  there  these  hundred 
or  more  years.  For  myself,  I  have  thought 
of    the    Bowling    (ireen    so    often,    and    have 

[3\ 


BOWLING   GREEN 

come  to  regard  it  with  so  much  respect  as  a 
place  of  historic  interest,  that  at  times  it  has 
seemed  to  me  an  animate  being  instead  ot  a 
senseless  bit  of  ground.  If  it  were  such,  I 
know  that  it  could  write  an  interesting  auto- 
biography, which,  I  feel  quite  sure,  would  be 
written  much  in  this  style : 

Don't  ask  me  to  tell  you  anything  about 
my  infancy.  I  absolutely  refuse.  It  I  am 
to  write  an  autobiography,  I  insist  on  begin- 
ning just  where  I  choose,  without  being 
hampered  by  anything  or  anybody. 

I  want  to  begin  at  that  time  when,  after 
lying  neglected  for  centuries,  downtrodden 
by  Indians,  who  beat  a  narrow  path  across 
me,  there  was  a  stir  about,  and  I  saw  white 
people  for  the  first  time.  I  afterward  learned 
that  they  were  traders,  who  concerned  them- 
selves with  buying  the  skins  of  animals  and 
shipping  them  away  to  Holland..      After  a  few 

[4] 


BOWLING    GREKN 

years,  more  white  people  came.  They  built 
wooden  houses  all  about  me — a  town.  It 
was    very    good     in    them    to    let    me    alone. 


'*  Petticoat  Lane  led  into  Bowling  Green." 

They  put  up  a  rough-looking  enclosure  and 
gave  it  the  name  of  Fort  Amsterdam.  And 
it  was  just  about  this  time  that  I,  too,  was 
given  a  name.    They  called  me  "  The  Plaine," 

LsJ 


BOWLING    GREEN 

and  I  now  became  a  village  green  and  a  pa- 
rade-ground for  the  soldiers. 

When  William  Kieft  came  to  be  Governor, 
and  went  blustering  about  in  the  fashion  that- 
brought  upon  him  the  name  of  *'  William  the 
Testy,"  and  after  he  and  his  soldiers  had 
fought  the  Indians,  and  the  Indians  had  laid 
waste  the  bouweries,  there  came  a  quieter 
time,  when  the  soldiers  and  Kieft  and  the 
town  officials  and  the  Indians  met.  Then 
they  trampled  me  under  foot  and  sat  upon 
me — smoking  their  pipes  of  peace. 

It  was  after  this  that  Governor  Kieft 
thought  it  would  be  well  to  honor  me  in 
some  special  manner.  So  he  decided  to  have 
two  markets  held  in  the  fall  of  each  year 
— one  for  hogs  and  one  for  cattle — ^nd  I 
was  considered  a  good  ground  for  this  pur- 
pose. 

Of  all  the  Dutch  Governors,  though,  I 
liked    Peter    Stuyvesant    best.      He   was    stern 

[6] 


o 


o 


i    h 


BOWLING    GRKKN 

and  abrupt,  but  he  was  just,  too,  and  I  could 
forgive  him  ev^en  when  he  stumped  across  me 
every  day,  his  wooden  leg  leaving  an  imprint 
that  was  quite  annoying.  He  established  a 
public  market  close  by  me,  alongside  of  the 
fort,  that  took  the  place  of  those  which  had 
been  held  in  the  tall.  Fat  cattle  were  tied 
to  posts  and  exhibited  for  sale,  and  people 
came  in  great  crowds  driving  ox-teams. 
There  were  horses  with  pillions  on  their 
backs,  where  a  man  and  a  woman  rode  to- 
gether, and  all  manner  of  vehicles.  The 
people  kept  up  a  chattering  all  day  long,  and 
the  horses  and  oxen,  when  they  were  un- 
hitched, wandered  off  by  the  little  battery 
that  Leisler  had  set  up,  and  ate  the  grass  all 
the  livelong  day. 

But  the  year  1733  was  an  eventful  one  for 
me,  for  in  that  year  I  was  rechristened  and 
called  the  Bowling  Green.  I  was  leased  to 
three  citizens.      Very  line   men  were  Colonel 

[9\ 


BOWLING    GREEN 

Philipse,  John  Roosevelt,  and  John  Chambers. 
They  were  to  fence  me  in  and  make  a  bowl- 
ing green,  with  pretty  walks,  for  the  use  of 
themselves  and  other  citizens.  They  did  this 
very  well,  and  left  a  line  wide  space  on  each 
side  for  the  street  that  is  called  Broadway.  I 
was  very  well  satisfied  with  my  new  condition, 
but  felt  rather  put  out  to  think  that  I  had 
been  leased  to  these  good  citizens  at  such  a 
low  rate.  For  they  were  only  obliged  to  pay 
one  peppercorn  a  year  for  me.  After  ten  or 
eleven  years  the  price  was  raised  to  twenty 
shillings.  This  was  more  as  it  should  be, 
and  somewhat  soothed  my  pride. 

My  life  went  along  smoothly  after  that, 
and  I  continued  to  be  a  bowling  green,  and 
a  place  where  the  people  met  in  times  of  re- 
joicing and  for  merrymaking.  But  my  days 
as  a  bowling  green,  the  happiest  and  most 
peaceful,  came  to  an  end.  In  the  year  1770 
my  troubles   commenced,  for  the  people  then 

[loj 


-7^ 


BOWLING    GREEN 

planted  squarely  upon  me  a  heavy  stone 
pedestal.  I  was  a  little  puzzled  to  know 
what  it  was  all  about,  but  very  soon  they 
raised  a  statue  of  King  George  III.  on  the 
pedestal  and  put  an  iron  fence  about  it. 
This  railing  still  stands.  The  statue  was  not 
there  long.  Only  six  years,  and  then,  at  the 
time  of  the  Revolution,  the  people,  no  longer 
honoring  the  king  whose  image  they  had 
erected  so  joyfully,  pulled  it  down  and 
dragged  the  royal  figure  in  the  dust.  But 
they  left  the  stone  pedestal,  and  there  it  re- 
mained for  several  years. 

I  had  been  quite  neglected  while  the  Brit- 
ish held  possession  of  the  city.  They  dumped 
all  sorts  of  things  upon  me  and  loaded  me 
down  with  rubbish.  I  was  very  glad  when 
they  left  New  York,  and  had  I  had  a  voice 
would  have  cried  out  as  loudly  as  did  the 
people  when  the  soldiers  of  the  Continental 
Army  came  trooping  about  me. 

r>3i 


BOWLING    GREEN 

Very  soon  after  the  war  I  was  put  in  spick 
and  span  order.  It  was  a  sad  day  for  me 
when  the  old  fort  was  torn  down,  but  then 
the  Government  House,  which  was  put  up  in 
its  place,  was  a  fine  building.      It  stood  facing 


The  Government  House  which  Faced  Bowling  Green. 

me,  and  I  must  say  it  would  not  have  looked 
half  so  well  had  I  not  been  there,  making  it 
so  that  no  other  house  could  be  crowded  near 
it  and  obstruct  the  view. 

But  nothing  seems  to  be  enduring.      I  have 

[14J 


BOWLING    GRP:EN 

seen  houses  grow  old  and  fall  down  all  around 
me.  The  Government  House  didn't  last 
long  —  not  nearly  so  long  as  some  of  the 
others.  After  it  went,  I  settled  down  into 
an  easy  life  as  a  little  park,  and  have  not  been 
disturbed  very  much  since.  The  houses  are 
growing  higher  and  higher  about  me,  shut- 
ting out  more  light  and  air  every  day,  and 
making  me  quite  gloomy  at  times,  but  there 
never  has  been  anything  said,  that  I  have 
heard,  about  putting  a  house  on  me,  and  thus 
blotting  out  my  existence,  and  I  hope  that 
such  a  misfortune  will   never  take  place. 


15 


HALF    AN    HOUR   ON 
GOLDEN    HILL 


HALF   AN    HOUR    ON 
GOLDEN    HILL 

GOLDEN  HILL  !  What  memories 
rise,  like  shadows  at  the  sound  of 
the  name !  Sturdy  Dutch  colonists 
working  in  the  fields  of  ripened  grain  ;  Dutch 
maidens  walking  by  the  side  of  clear  brooks  ; 
sleepy  cows  wandering  along  grass-grown 
roads  ;  picturesque,  angular  houses  on  sloping 
hillsides.  This  was  the  infancy  of  Golden 
Hill.      It  is  different  now. 

From  St.  Paul's  churchyard,  in  Broadway, 
two  minutes'  walk  toward  the  east,  and  we 
stand  on  Golden  Hill,  the  ground  reddened 
by  the  first  drop  of  blood  shed  in  the  War 
of  the  Revolution.  Where  John  Street 
touches  William,  there  is  a  dingy  tablet  on  a 
still    more   dingy   house-wall,   which    tells   of 

[19J 


HALF    AN    HOUR    ON    GOLDEN    HILL 

the  shedding  of  that  martyr  blood  in  1770. 
Cross  William  Street  from  the  tablet,  count 
six  houses  toward  the  north,  and  we  stand 
before  Golden  Hill  Inn,  which  is  so  fresh- 
ened up  externally  that  it  is  hard  to  believe 
it  to  be  over  one  hundred  years  old. 

The  colonists  bitterly  opposed  the  Stamp 
Act,  passed  in  1765,  from  which  the  British 
Government  sought  to  obtain  a  revenue  by 
compelling  them  to  buy  stamps  and  to  affix 
them  to  all  documents.  When  it  was  re- 
pealed in  1766,  they  set  up  a  Liberty  Pole. 
The  dragging  down  ot  this  pole  by  the  Brit- 
ish soldiers  led  to  the  Battle  of  Golden  Hill. 
The  battle-field  was  back  of  the  inn,  on  what 
is  now  a  small,  ill-conditioned  yard.  It  is  a 
cramped  space,  divided  by  a  tottering  fence. 
There  is  a  solitary  tree,  whose  gnarled 
branches  lean  against  the  nearest  wall  as 
though  for  support,  that  has  stood  there  as 
long  as  the  inn  itself. 


HALF    AN    HOUR    ON    GOLDEN    HILL 

Gold  Street,  a  few  feet  east  of  the  battle- 
ground, commemorates  the  name  of  Golden 
Hill.  Where  once  a  narrow  lane  led  through 
green  fields,  and  at  every  step  the  underbrush 
became  more  tangled,  until  it  ended  in  a  for- 
est of  great  trees.  Gold  Street  now  winds  and 
turns.  The  flowers  that  bloomed  there  have 
given  place  to  ragged  walls  of  brick ;  the 
undergrowth  to  a  mass  of  pavements,  door- 
ways, iron  shutters,  and  tangled  railings. 
Here  and  there  an  old  building  bears  witness 
to  the  days  of  long  ago,  and  nowhere  more 
interestingly  than  in  the  picturesque  lines  that 
go  to  make  up  the  "  Jack-Knife,"  at  Gold 
and  Piatt  Streets,  This  building,  rising  four 
stories  high,  is  at  one  end  so  narrow  that  a 
man  with  extended  arms  can  measure  its 
width.  It  is  a  verv  cupboard,  with  rooms 
branching  from  the  staircase  like  shelves. 
The  best  view  is  obtained  from  the  Piatt 
Street  side.      The  name,   **  Jack-Knife,"    was 

L21J 


HALF    AN    HOUR    ON    GOLDEN    HILL 

given  to  it  years  ago  by  those  who  decided 
that  it  looked  more  like  a  giant  knife-blade 
than  anything  else.  It  was  a  square  tavern 
until  the  present  Piatt  Street  was  cut  through 
the  property  of  Jacob  S.  Piatt,  in  1834,  and 
reduced  it  to  its  present  dimensions. 

Turn  from  the  "  Jack-Knife  "  into  Will- 
iam Street,  and  from  there  around  the  corner 
into  John,  to  see  another  relic  of  Golden 
Hill — the  John  Street  Methodist  Episcopal 
Church.  This  is  a  solid,  dingy  building, 
pressed  upon  almost  to  extinction  by  sur- 
rounding structures.  The  record  of  the  sev- 
eral remodellings  of  this  church,  since  it 
was  built  in  1768,  can  be  seen  on  the  faded 
marble  tablets  of  the  present  building. 

A  few  steps  farther,  and  we  stand  on 
ground  Washington  often  trod,  for  the  open 
space  behind  the  houses  numbered  17,  19, 
and  21  John  Street  formerly  bounded  the  old 
John  Street  Theatre,  where  Washington  wit- 


HALF    AN    HOUR    ON    GOLDEN    HILL 

nessed  the  performances.  A  dreary  arcade  is 
all  that  is  left  of  the  covered  way  which  led 
to  the  little  play-house.  When  the  British 
held  possession  of  the  town,  the  army  officers 
turned  actors  in  this  theatre.  It  was  a  merry 
place  then,  and  resounded  to  bursts  of  ap- 
plause. Nowadays,  instead  of  shouts  of 
laughter,  is  heard  the  buzz  of  machinery, 
and  the  resonant  voices  of  the  actors  are 
replaced  by  strident  tones  of  workingmen. 
The  wooden  walls,  painted  red  without,  are 
gone,  making  way  for  structures  of  brick, 
with  a  rusty  tangle  of  fire-escapes  clinging  to 
them. 

Around  the  corner,  one  block  along 
Broadway,  and  then  into  the  ancient  Maiden's 
Lane.  With  the  first  step  into  it,  one  can 
see  the  street  winding  out  of  sight  among 
the  distant  houses,  just  as  it  did  around  the 
base  of  Golden  Hill  when  it  was  a  tiny 
stream    between   steep   green    banks.      Dutch 


HALF    AN    HOUR    ON    GOLDEN    HILL 

maidens  took  their  way  to  this  stream  to  do 
the  family  washing.  Their  many  feet  wore 
a  path,  and  what  more  appropriate  name  for 
it  could  be  found  than  the  *'  Virgin's  Path," 
which,  in  time,  became  the  Maiden's  Lane. 

In  the  walk  down  Maiden  Lane,  the  first 
street  crossed  is  Nassau ;  peculiarly  narrow 
and  undulating,  and  still  showing  strong 
traces  of  the  hills  and  valleys  it  traversed 
when  it  was  the  **  Pie  Woman's  Lane,"  in 
the  latter  days  of  the  seventeenth  century. 
Here,  as  everywhere  else  in  the  Golden  Hill 
district,  there  is  a  continual  conflict  between 
the  old  and  the  new.  This  conflict  has  left, 
at  William  Street,  one  section  of  a  house, 
plastered  up  against  a  larger  structure.  The 
house-end  on  William  Street  is  scarcely  a  foot 
wide,  and  the  rooms  inside  would  be  barely 
large  enough  for  a  doll. 

Where  the  stream  that  flowed  beside  the 
Maiden's    Lane    emptied    into    the    river,    a 


HALF    AN    HOUR    ON    GOLDEN    HILL 

blacksmith  set  up  a  shop  that  gave  to  the 
locaUty  the  name  of  Smit's  V'lei,  or  the 
Smith's  Valley.  This  was  the  starting-point 
of  a  little  settlement  that  grew  year  by  year. 
As  the  houses  multiplied,  the  land  became 
more  valuable.  The  stream  was  filled  in 
and  became  a  street.  The  river  was  forced 
back,  and  houses  were  erected  on  the  land 
thus  reclaimed.  In  the  early  part  of  the 
eighteenth  century  a  market  was  built  upon 
this  land.  It  was  in  the  centre  of  Maiden 
Lane,  and  extended  three  blocks  from  Pearl 
Street  to  the  water-front.  Being  in  Smit's 
V'lei,  and  that  name  having  been  corrupted, 
it  was  called  the  "  Fly  "  Market. 

Although  there  is  now  no  trace  of  the 
King's  Head,  at  the  present  northwest  corner 
of  Maiden  Lane  and  Pearl  Street,  it  stood 
there  at  the  close  of  the  seventeenth  cen- 
tury. It  was  a  substantial  inn,  this  house  of 
Roger  Baker.      Baker  is  remembered  in  his- 

[27J 


HALF    AN    HOUR    ON    GOLDEN    HILL 

tory  as  the  man  who  said,  during  the  trial 
for  treason  of  Colonel  Nicholas  Bavard,  in 
1702,  that  ''  William  HL  had  a  nose  of  wax, 
and  was  no  longer  king  than  the  English 
pleased."  He  was  heavily  tined  for  this 
saying. 

From  Maiden  Lane  enter  Pearl  Street. 
Li  the  early  days,  when  New  York  was  New 
Amsterdam,  the  favorite  walk  of  the  colo- 
nists followed  the  course  of  the  East  River. 
Walk  along  Pearl  Street,  and  we  are  follow- 
ing that  once  beautiful  river-path.  The 
foot-path  in  time  became  a  lane;  then  a 
street.  In  1695  it  was  called  Great  Queen 
Street;  in  1725  simply  Queen  Street.  Bv 
1765  the  portion  south  of  Wall  Street  had 
become  Pearl  Street. 

When  Washington  became  President  of 
the  new  nation  he  lived  on  this  street,  near 
by  the  open  space  now  Franklin  Square.  It 
was     a    main    thoroughfare,    with    buildings 

[28] 


HALF    AN    HOUR    ON    GOLDEN    HILL 

from  four  to  six  stories  high  —  skyscrapers 
for  those  days.  In  the  first  days  of  the  nine-^ 
teenth  century  the  entire  thoroughfare  had 
become  Pearl  Street.  Whatever  it  may  once 
have  enjoyed  of  country  green,  and  unob- 
structed river  breezes,  no  trace  of  them 
remains.  It  is  now  a  cramped  and  gloomy 
way,  darkened  by  the  structure  of  the  elevat- 
ed road  from  above,  and  by  an  irregular  line 
of  unattractive  buildings  on  each  side. 

Within  sight  of  the  ground  on  which 
stood  Washington's  house,  turn  off  and  fol- 
low Fulton  Street  to  the  west,  and  you  have 
completed  the  circuit  of  Golden  Hill. 


,!>] 


KIP'S   BAY   AND    KIP'S    HOUSE 


Kip'5  6/ 


/ 


/\N0 


nip'i  nou^^ 


^i=- 


<V 


^^ 


^ 


KIP'S    BAY   AND   KIP'S    HOUSE 


THE  records  tell  plainly  enough  that 
Jacob  Kip  lived  four  miles  from  the 
city ;  that  his  farm  of  one  hundred 
and  fifty  acres 
stretched  along  the 
East  River  shore ; 
and  that  close  by 
his  house  was  a 
little  cove  called 
Kip's  Bay,  where 
great  trees  on  the 
bank  cast  their  shadows,  plainly  seen  reflected 
in  the  placid  water. 

But  if  you  look  for  Kip's  Bay  and  Kip's 
house  now,  you  will  find  all  changed.  There 
is  no  farm,  no  cove.  There  are  no  towering 
trees.      For    in    the    two    hundred    and    fifty 

L!5J 


Kip's  House. 


KIP'S   BAY   AND    KIP'S    HOUSE 

years  that  have  passed  since  Kip's  day,  the 
city  has  crept  northward  by  easy  stages,  has 
spread  its  buildings  over  Kip's  farm,  has  swal- 
lowed up  Kip's  house,  and  has  blotted  out 
Kip's  Bay. 

The  house  of  Kip  stood  just  where  the 
Second  Avenue  Elevated  Railroad  crosses 
Thirty-fifth  Street.  Where  Jacob  Kip's  gar- 
dens were,  there  are  now  long  rows  of  houses 
growing  gray  with  age,  and  swarming  with 
people.  There  are  court-yards  with  sickly 
looking  trees  breaking  through  the  pave- 
ments, their  branches  flattened  against  brick 
walls.  It  is  a  district  wherein  everything 
looks  out  of  date.  The  buildings  have  fire- 
escapes  with  boxed  platforms  that  look  so 
much  like  bird-cages  that  the  little  children 
in  bright-colored  garments  who  play  on  them, 
and  flit  back  and  forth  through  the  ever-open 
windows,  seem  like  tropical  birds. 

Often   I   stroll  through  the   Kip's   Bay  dis- 

[36] 


KIP'S    BAY    AND    KIP'S    HOUSE 

trict,  for  it  recalls  much  that  is  old-fashioned. 
And  as  I  walk  along,  the  ghosts  ot  men  and 
things  of  other  days  come  trooping  out. 

It  happened  so  when  I  went  last  through 
these  streets.  The  dingy  houses,  the  avenue 
swarming  with  life,  the  side  streets  overrun 
with  noisy  children — all  these  things  melted 
away.  In  their  place  I  seemed  to  see  Kip's 
house  of  two  low  stories,  A  double  house  it 
was,  with  a  wing  almost  as  large  as  the  main 
building,  a  steep,  peaked  roof,  with  a  weather 
cock  on  the  point.  A  house  built  ot  tiny  bricks 
brought  from  Holland,  so  enduringly  con- 
structed that  it  lasted  for  two  hundred  vears. 
It  stood  in  the  midst  of  a  stretch  of  farm  and 
woodland,  with  nowhere  another  house  in 
sight,  tor  the  town  ot  New  Amsterdam  was 
four  miles  lower  down  the  island,  clustering 
about  the  present  Bowling  Cireen.  The  lane 
that  led  past  the  house  of  Kip  went  winding 
in   and   out   among  the   trees   until  it  reached 

[J7j 


KIP'S    BAY    AND    KIP'S    HOUSE 

the  river,  where  it  ended  at  the  Httle  inlet 
that  through  two  centuries  was  called  Kip's 
Bay,  and  that,  when  it  lost  all  semblance  of 
a  bay,  left  its  name  as  an  inheritance  to  the 
district  about  the  shore. 

The  winding  lane  between  Kip's  house 
and  the  bay  has  become  Thirty-fifth  Street. 
In  walking  along  it  now,  I  think  of  Jacob 
Kip  who  built  the  house.  One  day,  in  the 
early  part  of  the  year  1654,  there  was  a  stir 
in  the  little  town  of  New  Amsterdam,  for  on 
that  day  young  Jacob  Kip  was  married  to 
Marie  La  Montague,  in  the  Dutch  church 
which  stood  within  the  walls  of  the  fort. 
Well  might  there  be  a  commotion,  for  Jacob 
Kip  was  secretary  of  New  Netherland,  and 
one  of  the  foremost  men  in  the  colony.  He 
was  a  son  of  Hendrick  Kip,  who  had  come 
from  Holland  twenty  years  before  this  time, 
and  had  made  a  name  for  himself  in  the 
new  country.      And  Marie  La  Montague  was 

[38J' 


i4 


Q 


'3 
PQ 

'0 

< 


KIP'S    BAY   AND    KIP'S    HOUSE 

the  beauty  of  the  colony.  She  was  the 
daughter  of  Dr.  La  Montague,  who  was  the 
chief  adviser  of  ""the  good  governor,  Peter 
Stuyvesant.  It  was  in  the  year  after  this 
marriage  that  young  Jacob  Kip  built  the 
house  on  his  farm  and  went  there  to  live  with 
his  bride.  Long,  long  years  after  Kip  died, 
long,  long  years  after  New  Amsterdam  be- 
came New  York,  the  house  stood  ;  and  when 
it  finally  was  torn  down,  in  the  year  1851,  it 
was  the  oldest  house  on  the  Island  of  Man- 
hattan. 

Kip's  Bay  is  gone,  too.  In  these  days  the 
bay  has  become  a  slip  for  ferry-boats.  And 
on  the  green  banks  that  led  from  the  water's 
edge  have  arisen  the  irregular  buildings  of  a 
ferry-house. 

On  the  day  when  I  walked  with  the  mem- 
ory of  Jacob  Kip  strong  upon  me,  I  crossed 
the  river,  by  the  ferry,  which  leads  from 
Kip's  Bay.      It   is  a   lesson   in  history  to  cross 

[41] 


KIP'S    BAY    AND    KIP'S    HOUSE 

that  ferry.  The  boats  take  their  way  from 
the  foot  of  Thirty-fourth  Street  to  Long  Isl- 
and City.  It  was  almost  this  same  course 
that  the  British  troops,  under  Sir  Henry  Clin- 
ton, followed,  when  they  came  from  Long 
Island,  in  the  month  of  September,  1776,  at 
the  time  of  the  Revolution.  It  was  in  the 
days  after  the  Battle  of  Long  Island.  Five 
British  men-of-war  sailed  up  the  East  River, 
and  anchored  opposite  Kip's  Bay.  The  town 
in  that  year  was  still  all  below  the  present 
City  Hall,  and  Kip's  Bay  was  miles  above  it. 
Close  about  the  bay,  as  on  other  parts  of  the 
river  shore,  breastworks  had  been  set  up  as  a 
means  of  defence.  But  the  handful  of  men 
at  the  Kip's  Bay  fortification  had  scarcely 
time  to  wonder  why  the  war-ships  had  come, 
before  a  flotilla  of  flat-bottomed  boats  swarmed 
out  of  Newtown  Creek  and  dyed  the  river 
with  scarlet-coated  soldiers.  Then,  under 
cover    of    the    fire    from   the    war-ships,    the 

[42] 


KIP'S    BAY    AND    KIP'S    HOUSE 


eighty-four  boats  floated  into  Kip's  Bay,  and 
the  four  thousand  men  clambered  up  the 
banks,  driving  the  few  American  soldiers 
before  them. 

Although    the    ferry-boats  take    the   course 
across  the  river  that  was  taken  by  the  British 


Ufe-i. 


The  City  in  Kip's  Time. 

soldiers,  the  passengers  nowadays  look  upon 
a  far  different  scene.  There  are  no  longer 
green  shores,  with  the  house  of  Kip  upon  the 
hill.  Simply  a  dingy  edge  of  the  city,  lined 
with  ships  and  shipping,  and  over  all  a  con- 
stant and  bewildering  roar. 

L43] 


KIP'S    BAY    AND    KIP'S    HOUSE 

When  I  went  to  meditate  upon  the  mem- 
ories of  Kip's  Bay  and  Kip's  house,  after  my 
voyage  across  the  ferry,  I  walked  up  Second 
Avenue,  with  the  clanging  electric  cars  beside 
me  and  thundering  elevated  trains  overhead. 
And  I  tried  to  picture  how  different  the 
Kip's  Bay  district  had  been  on  the  day  when 
the  British  troops  landed  and  marched  tow- 
ard the  north,  over  the  fields,  and  rested  on 
Murray  Hill.  And  I  tried  to  imagine  how 
furious  Washington  had  been  that  same  day 
when  he  met  the  retreating  Americans  in  a 
cornfield.  How  different  that  cornfield  looks 
now,  with  the  ponderous  Grand  Central 
Depot  buildings  rising  above  it ! 


44. 


THE    INLAND     ROAD    TO 
GREENWICH 


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THE    INLAND    ROAD     TO 
GREENWICH 

IF  anyone  should  wish  to  see  a  great  deal 
of  Old  New  York  in  a  single  walk,  let 
him  go  by  the  Inland  Road  to  Green- 
wich. Although  the  road,  which  was 
opened  in  1768,  does  not  exist  to-day,  it  is 
easy  to  trace  by  following  Park  Row,  the 
Bowery,  Astor  Place,  and  Greenwich  Avenue. 
This  road  connected  the  town  of  New 
York  with  the  village  of  Greenwich,  points 
quite  two  miles  apart  in  early  days.  There 
was  another  road — along  the  western  water- 
side— but  the  tide  and  the  marshes  made  it 
at  times  unfit  for  travel. 

Park  Row,  where  the  walk  begins,  was 
Chatham  Street  in  Revolutionary  days,  and 
its  old   name  bore  witness   to  the  gratitude  of 

[47J 


THE    INLAND    ROAD   TO   GREENWICH 

the  people  to  William  Pitt,  Earl  of  Chatham, 
for  his  efforts  in  behalf  of  the  American 
colonies.  But  the  city  authorities,  regard- 
less of  sentiment,  early  in  the  nineteenth 
century,  renamed  the  street  Park  Row 
where  it  extended  past  City  Hall  Park,  and 
in  1886  that  name  was  given  to  the  thor- 
oughfare for  its  entire  length. 

Park  Row  has  sadly  degenerated  since  its 
early  days.  Walk  from  the  park  past  a 
series  of  cheap  restaurants,  cross  three  inter- 
secting thoroughfares,  and  one  comes  to 
Baxter  Street.  This  point,  now  far  down- 
town— twenty  minutes'  walk  from  the  Bat- 
tery— was  the  limit  of  the  city  boundary 
shortly  before  the  Revolution.  A  little 
brook  crossed  the  road  right  here,  spanned 
by  the  earliest  Kissing  Bridge,  where  the 
townsfolk  met  friends  and  parted  from 
travellers,  with  certain  interesting  ceremo- 
nies.     Over    there,   at    the   southwest  corner, 

[48J 


THE    INLAND    ROAD   TO   GREENWICH 

that  dilapidated,  peaked-roof  building  with 
the  number  i66  above  the  door,  stands  just 
where  the  Tea-Water  Pump  was — a  won- 
derful pump,  the  chief  water-works  of  the 
city  during  most  of  the  eighteenth  century, 
that  gave  pure  water  which  was  supposed 
to  contain  qualities  that  made  it  especially 
valuable  in  the  making  of  good  tea. 

In  later  days,  subsequent  to  1839,  diago- 
nally across  the  way  was  the  Chatham  Thea- 
tre, where  "  Kirby  used  to  die,"  and  where 
*<  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin  "  was  first  produced  in 
the  city,  in  1852. 

On,  a  few  steps,  and  one  reaches  Chat- 
ham Square,  whose  history  began  in  1647 
as  a  fenced-in  space  tor  cattle  in  the  midst 
of  a  forest.  Close  by,  where  Pell  Street  runs 
into  the  square,  stood  the  house  where  Char- 
lotte Temple  died.  That  unfortunate  English- 
woman came  to  this  country  just  before  the 
Revolution,  with  an  English  officer,  and  when 

[49] 


THE    INLAND   ROAD  TO   GREENWICH 

• 

she  was  deserted  found  shelter  in  this  house, 
then  some  distance  from  the  city.  The  inci- 
dents of  her  Hfe  formed  the  basis  of  a  novel 
by  Mrs.  Susanna  Rowson,  and  through  this 
mieans  her  memory  has  lived,  for  more  than 
a  century,  to  "  point  a  moral  and  adorn  a 
tale." 

In  the  time  when  Kieft  governed,  six 
bouweries,  or  farms,  were  laid  out  on  the 
lower  eastern  part  of  the  island.  When 
Governor  Stuyvesant  bought  one  of  these 
bouweries  in  1651,  he  started  the  Bou- 
werie  Village,  which  centred  about  where 
Cooper  Union  is  now.  The  road  which  led 
to  this  village  was  called  Bouwerie  Lane. 
This  was  the  commencement  of  the  first 
road  which  extended  the  length  of  the  island 
— the  Post  Road,  called  by  the  English  the 
Bowery  Road,  and  now  the  Bowery.  In 
time,  low,  picturesque  Dutch  houses  lined 
both    sides   of  Bouwerie   Lane,  and   later   the 

[50] 


THE    INLAND   ROAD   TO   GREENWICH 

British  army  of  occupation  encamped  beside 
them. 

Almost  at  the  point  where  the  Bowery- 
has  its  beginning,  at  the  northern  edge  of 
Chatham  Square,  stands  a  building  of  mas- 
sive front,  noticeable  in  contrast  to  the  en- 
vironing houses.  This  is  all  that  remains  of 
the  old  Bowery  Theatre,  the  fifth  of  its 
name,  for  it  was  four  times  burned.  It  was 
the  first  theatre  to  be  lighted  by  gas,  and  in 
it  Charlotte  Cushman  made  her  first  appear- 
ance in  New  York ;  here  also  the  elder 
Booth,  Lester  Wallack,  and  Edwin  Forrest 
won  their  greatest  triumphs.  In  the  final 
years  of  its  existence,  before  it  became  the 
Thalia  Theatre  in  1879,  the  Bowery  was 
given  over  to  melodrama,  and  it  is  in  con- 
nection with  these  last  days  that  it  is  best 
remembered. 

Long     before    the    days    of     the    Bowery 
Theatre,  the   Bull's  Head  Tavern   stood  upon 

[5-] 


THE    INLAND    ROAD   TO   GREENWICH 

this  site,  having  been  built  about  1760.  It 
was  the  chief  inn  of  the  day,  being  on  the 
main  road  to  the  town,  and  was  much  fre- 
quented by  drovers,  as  the  slaughter-houses 
were  close  by.  It  was  here  that  Washing- 
ton and  his  staff  rested,  after  the  British 
troops  had  marched  along  Bowery  Road  in 
the  evacuation  of  the  town. 

On  up  the  Bowery,  and  in  a  few  minutes 
one  reaches  Rivington  Street,  and  comes  to  a 
battered  bit  of  stone  standing  upright  at  the 
curb  line.  Passed  unnoticed  by  the  hurry- 
ing throngs,  it  is  a  landmark  ;  one  of  the 
last  existing:  mile-stones  that  marked  the  dis- 
tance  on  the  Post  Road  from  the  City  Hall 
in  Wall  Street. 

Much  of  the  land  to  the  east  of  this  mile- 
stone was  owned  by  James  De  Lancey,  who 
in  1733  was  Chief  Justice  of  the  colony,  and 
twenty  years  later  Lieutenant  Governor.  His 
country  home  was  little   more  than  a  stone's- 

1 52] 


THE    INLAND   ROAD   TO   GREENWICH 

throw  from  the  mile-stone,  at  what  is  now 
the  northwest  corner  of  Delancey  and  Chrys- 
tie  Streets,  and  it  was  there  he  died  in  1760. 
Now  the  district  is  one  of  tenement-houses, 
and  gives  no  suggestion  of  the  house  of 
De  Lancey,  or  the  lane  which  traced  the 
line  of  the  present  Delancey  Street  through 
a  green  field  to  the  house. 

The  travellers  to  Greenwich  Village  by 
the  Inland  Road  turned  toward  the  west, 
on  the  outskirts  of  the  Bouwerie  Village, 
into  the  section  of  the  road  afterward  known 
as  Monument  Lane.  So  the  walker  now 
turns,  when  Cooper  Union  is  reached,  and, 
passing  into  the  open  space  of  Astor  Place,  is 
in  the  old  lane. 

Interesting  memories  cluster  about  Astor 
Place.  Clinton  Hall,  the  largest  building, 
is  the  third  of  that  name.  It  is  the  home  of 
the  Mercantile  Library,  and  it  is  named  in 
honor    of  De    Witt    Clinton,  who    gave  the 

[55] 


THE    INLAND    ROAD   TO   GREENWICH 

first  volume  to  the  library  when  it  was  or- 
ganized in  1820.  On  this  site  once  stood 
the  Astor  Place  Opera  House,  the  scene,  in 
1849,  ^^  ^^^  Macready-Forrest  riots,  which 
were  the  culmination  of  a  quarrel  between 
the  two  actors. 

Facing  the  open  space  from  the  north  is 
the  building  now  used  as  a  German  theatre, 
which  was  erected  in  1841  for  Dr.  Macau- 
ley's  Presbyterian  congregation,  which  had 
previously  worshipped  in  a  church  at  37 
Murray  Street.  This  building  w^as  later  oc- 
cupied by  Dr.  Shroeder,  who  had  been  a 
minister  of  Trinity  Church,  and,  after  his 
failure  to  establish  a  parish,  the  house  was 
used  by  St.  Ann's  Roman  Catholic  congrega- 
tion. 

To  the  south  of  the  space  was  the  Vaux- 
hall  Garden,  a  pleasure-ground  established  in 
1799,  the  last  vestige  of  which  disappeared  in 
1855.      Lafayette   Place  was  opened  through 

[56] 


THE   INLAND    ROAD   TO   GRKKNWICH 

the  Garden  in  1826,  and  ten  years  later  the 
picturesque  block  on  the  west  side  of  the 
street,  now  called  Colonnade  Row,  was  built, 
and  called  La  Grange  Terrace,  after  General 
Lafayette's  home  in  France.  In  houses  of 
this  row  at  one  time  lived  Washington  Irv- 
ing and  John  Jacob  Astor. 

Monument  Lane  extended  in  a  direct  line 
from  the  Bowery  to  Washington  Square. 
Between  that  point  and  Broadway  there  is 
now  no  trace,  in  the  thickly  built-up  block, 
of  the  lane  of  a  hundred  years  ago.  In  those 
days  Washington  Square  was  a  pauper  grave- 
yard, often  complained  of  as  being  too  near  a 
fashionable  drive.  The  cemetery  was  re- 
moved in   1H23  to  where  Bryant  Park  now  is. 

Beyond  Washington  Square  the  road 
turned  to  the  northwest  and  skirted  Green- 
wich Village.  The  last  section  of  it  will  be 
found  in  Greenwich  Avenue,  which  juts  out 
of  Sixth    Avenue   close   by  Jefferson    Market. 

[57J 


THE    INLAND    ROAD   TO   GREENWICH 

The  streets  on  one  side  of  it  run  away  at  all 
sorts  of  angles,  while  those  on  the  other  side 
are  straight  and  regular,  showing  plainly 
enough  how  the  by-ways  of  the  old  village 
met  the  streets  of  the  first  City  Plan,  and 
failed  to  connect  at  any  point. 

At  the  upper  edge  of  Greenwich  Village, 
close  by  what  is  now  Eighth  Avenue  and 
Fifteenth  Street,  was  a  monument  which 
commemorated  the  memory  of  General 
Wolfe,  the  hero  of  Quebec.  During  the 
British  occupation  the  monument  disap- 
peared and  no  trace  of  it  was  ever  found. 
At  this  monument  ended  Monument  Lane, 
and  also  the  Inland  Road  to  Greenwich. 


[58] 


CHRISTMAS    IN    OLD 
NEW   AMSTERDAM 


CH!?i6rnA$      /N     Old    Ne.vv   An-i 


re/?0/\Nj__ 


CHRISTMAS    IN    OLD    NEW 
AMSTERDAM 

JUST  before  the  sun  went  down,  on  a 
Christmas  Eve  in  the  days  when  Peter 
Stuyvesant  governed  on  the  Island  ot 
Manhattan,  its  rays  fell  upon  the  pretty  little 
village  of  New  Amsterdam.  Here  it  nestles 
at  the  lowest  point  ot  the  island  —  one  hun- 
dred and  twenty  as  dainty  and  picturesque 
houses  as  artist  ever  dreamed  ot ;  tiny  struct- 
ures one  story  high,  some  ot  stone,  some  ot 
brick,  some  of  wood  ;  all  with  steep,  slanting 
roofs.  This,  then,  is  the  village  of  New 
Amsterdam,  shut  in  to  the  north  by  a  wooden 
wall,  with  its  two  gates  about  to  be  closed 
for  the  night ;  gates  that  are  as  the  eyes  of 
the  town,  for  the  citizens  go  to  sleep  when 
the   gates  are   locked.      Close   by  the    river  is 

I  6 1  I 


CHRISTMAS    IN    OLD 

the  Water  Gate,  and,  near  by,  two  small,  fierce- 
appearing  cannon,  ready  to  do  mischief  to 
any  strolling   band  of  Indians  that  might  ap- 


The  Water  Gate  at  the   Foot  of  Wall  Street. 

pear  in  the  night.  And  beyond  the  wall 
there  is  a  stretch  of  rugged  country,  brush 
land,  and  forest.  Some  patches  where  the 
trees  have  been  cleared  away  show  the  begin- 


NEW   AMSTERDAM 

nings  of  a  bouwerie.  There  are  solitary 
houses  on  high  ground,  and  far  away,  three 
miles  at  least  from  the  wall,  are  half  a  dozen 
buildings  that  mark  the  start  of  Stuyvesant's 
Bouwerie  Village,  a  tiny  infant  now,  but 
which  is  to  grow  stronger  and  stronger  with 
each  passing  year. 

There  is  just  enough  light  to  show  the 
little  town  with  its  enclosing  wall;  just 
enough  light  to  see  the  crooked,  narrow 
streets,  that  have  grown  to  their  present 
dignity  from  lanes  that  led  from  house  to 
house.  These  begin  in  uncertain  manner,  and 
wander  along  in  undecided  fashion,  to  end 
against  houses,  to  disappear  into  marshy  spots, 
to  halt  abruptly  on  the  edge  of  dwarf  canals. 
Here  is  the  fort  with  its  mud  walls,  and  op- 
posite its  sally-port  is  The  Plaine,  that  is  one 
day  to  become  the  Bowling  Green.  There 
is  the  Heere  Straat  (that  will  some  day  be 
Broadway),    extending   straight   to   the    Land 

I  63  I 


CHRISTMAS    IN    OLD 

Gate  of  the  wall ;  and  there  is  the  business 
thoroughfare  of  the  village,  Pearl  Street,  with 
its  forty-three  shops  facing  the  waters  of  the 


Whitehall,  Governor  Stuyvesant's   House. 

East  River.  And  there,  too,  is  the  Beaver's 
Path,  damp  and  marshy,  leading  out  of  The 
Plaine,  through  the  sheep  pasture,  and  ending 
at   the   Heere   Gracht  —  the  Grand    Canal  — 

[64] 


NEW   AMSTERDAM 

which  in  after  years  will  be  buried  deep 
beneath  a  bit  of  city  that  shall  be  called 
Broad  Street.  And  here  is  the  palace  of 
New  Amsterdam,  towering  at  the  edge  of 
the  water-side  —  the  Governor's  new  house, 
called  Whitehall,  which  has  just  been  built, 
its  surrounding  gardens  covered  lightly  by  the 
snow  which  has  fallen  during  the  afternoon, 
and  which  is  still  falling. 

The  sun  goes  down  and  leaves  the  little 
town  in  darkness ;  leaves  the  houses  to  be 
watched  over  by  Saint  Nicholas,  the  patron 
saint  of  New  Amsterdam.  Then  the  voices 
of  children  rise  in  the  night,  and  their  song 
is  the  one  that  every  child  in  New  Amster- 
dam knows  best  of  all  : 

Saint  Nicholas,  good,  holv  man, 
Put  your  best  Tabard  on  you  can, 
And  in  it  go  to  Amsterdam; 
From  Amsterdam  to  Hispanje, 
Where  apples  bright  of  Orange, 

[65I 


CHRISTMAS    IN    OLD 

And  likewise  these  pomegranates  named, 
Roll  through  the  streets  still  unreclaimed. 
Saint  Nicholas,  my  dear,  good  friend, 
To  serve  you  ever  was  my  end ; 
If  you  me  now  something  will  give, 
Serve  you  I  will  as  long  as  I  live. 

The  song  dies  away.  Silence  mingles  with 
the  night.  When  the  sun  comes  up  again, 
it  is  Christmas  morning  ! 

Its  first  rays  see  the  city's  gates  opened,  and 
the  little  town  slowly  awaken  ;  see  the  smoke 
curling  from  chimneys  that  tell  of  fires  built 
in  wide  fireplaces.  See  colored  slaves  at  front 
windows,  and  know  that  the  parlor,  that 
secluded  apartment  opened  only  on  Sundays 
and  holidays,  has  been  opened,  and  know, 
too,  that  the  white  sand  on  the  spotless  floors 
has  been  worked  with  a  broom  into  all  man- 
ner of  fantastic  shapes.  There  can  be  heard 
sounds  of  children's  merry  voices  as  they  dis- 
cover   the   rude    toys   that   have  been   put   in 

[66] 


NEW   AMSTERDAM 

their  stockings  in  the  name  of  their  good 
friend,  Saint  Nicholas.  New  Amsterdam  is 
now  wide   awake.      Not   with    the   roar   and 


The  Canal   and  Fish   Bridge  in   Broad  Street. 

din  of  a  bustling  city,  but  the  peaceful  sounds 
of  family  life ;  a  people  content  in  simple 
surroundings,  in  a  land  that  they  have  made 
their  home  in  spite  of  struggle  and  hardship. 

[67] 


CHRISTMAS    IN    OLD 

And  now  the  sun,  looking  full  upon  the 
little  town,  sees  the  small  burghers  in  their 
homespun  coats,  their  knee-breeches,  their 
rough  boots,  their  low-crowned,  broad- 
brimmed  hats  over  hair  that  dangles  to  their 
shoulders,  saluting  one  another  with  happy- 
wishes  for  this  Christmas  day.  It  is  too  early 
even  yet  for  the  great  burghers  to  be  abroad. 
The  Dutch  youths  are  preparing  for  the 
turkey-shoot  of  the  forenoon,  and  the  good 
vrouw  is  already  bustling  about  arranging  for 
the  afternoon  dinner. 

The  sun  then  creeps  inquisitively  into  the 
Governor's  Whitehall  house,  and  finds  him, 
the  sturdy  Peter  Stuyvesant,  dressing  for  the 
day.  It  peers  into  the  dwellings  of  the  bur- 
gomasters and  schepens,  and  notifies  them 
that  it  is  time  to  be  about.  Later,  as  the 
day  grows  older,  the  sun,  not  strong  enough 
to  melt  the  snow  that  rests  like  a  white  veil 
upon  the  ground,  smiles  upon  the  young  men 

[68] 


NEW   AMSTERDAM 

with  their  guns  on  their  shoulders,  and  the 
old  men  with  their  pipes,  who  gather  at  the 
trysting-place.  The  Plaine  before  the  Fort. 
When  all  are  come,  the  merry  crowd  go 
trooping  along  the  Heere  Straat.  The  hum 
of  voices,  which  has  grown  to  full  strength, 
is  hushed  as  the  joyous  company  pass  the  little 
graveyard  above  The  Plaine.  One  old  man 
stops  as  the  others  pass  on,  and,  with  un- 
covered head,  murmurs  some  words,  his  eyes 
fixed  upon  a  wooden  cross  standing  in  a  heap 
of  earth.  Then  he,  too,  goes  on  and  joins 
the  rest  as  they  pass  through  the  Land  Gate, 
and  so  on  to  The  Common. 

The  sun  beams  most  approvingly  upon  the 
turkeys — fine,  fat  fellows — hung  up  on  a  pole, 
and  sees  the  youthful  sportsmen  shoot  at  these 
turkey  targets  and  carry  off  their  prizes,  while 
the  older  townsmen  stand  about,  and,  between 
puffs  at  their  pipes,  tell  of  the  days  when  they 
carried  off  turkey  prizes,  and  they  outdo  one 

L69J 


CHRISTMAS    IN    OLD 


another  then  and  there  in  stories  of  the  turkey- 
shoots  when    they  were    young,  and    of  how 


The  Water  Front  on  the  East   River. 

much    better    marksmen    there    were    in    the 
good  old  days. 

It  is  afternoon.  The  sun  witnesses  the 
official  visit  of  the  burgomasters  and  the 
schepens  to  the  Governor  at  Whitehall. 
There  is  the  stern   Peter  Stuyvesant — not  so 

[70j 


NEW    AMSTERDAM 

stern  as  usual  to-day — standing  at  the  head 
of  the  great  entry  which  leads  to  the  stoop, 
and  is  wider  than  an  ordinary  room,  and 
much  longer.  He  wears  his  regimental  coat, 
all  covered  with  brass  buttons,  with  the  skirts 
turned  up  at  the  corners,  bright-colored 
breeches,  a  silver  buckle  on  his  one  low  shoe, 
and  his  wooden  leg,  tipped  with  silver,  firmly 
planted  before  him.  Standing  there  he  sa- 
lutes, as  they  advance,  the  two  burgomasters, 
the  five  schepens.  Dominie  Magapolensis,  the 
great  burghers,  the  town  clerk,  and  even  the 
bell-ringer  of  the  church  in  the  Fort. 

Still  later  in  the  afternoon  the  families  sit 
before  the  wide  fireplaces  in  the  kitchens, 
with  the  Christmas  dinner  ready  to  be  served. 
There  are  the  turkeys,  the  immense  apple- 
pies,  the  saucers  of  preserved  peaches,  the 
balls  of  sweetened  dough  fried  in  hog's  fat, 
and  cake  and  wine  and  punch — a  dinner  that 
has    been    looked    forward    to    for    many    a 

[71] 


OLD    NEW    AMSTERDAM 

month.  And  then  the  sun,  finding  a  way 
into  the  house  with  its  last  faint  ray,  sees  the 
old  burgher  in  his  fav^orite  corner  of  the  fire- 
side tranquilly  smoking  his  pipe,  his  wife 
diligently  knitting  stockings ;  the  children 
around  the  hearth. 

But  what  the  sun  does  not  see,  are  the 
dancing,  and  the  festivities  in  the  Governor's 
house,  ablaze  with  lighted  candles.  The  hall 
is  thronged  with  young  men  and  maidens, 
who  dance  while  the  Governor  looks  long- 
ingly on. 

The  candles  burn  very  late  this  night  ;  at 
ten  o'clock  they  are  still  lighted  !  But  pres- 
ently the  last  one  is  snuffed  out  by  Peter 
Stuyvesant  himself.  There  is  no  sign  now 
of  any  light  in  the  little  town.  New  Am- 
sterdam     sleeps      soundly    after     its     merry- 


maKm 


ki 


'g- 


[70" 


ABOUT   OLD   ST.   PAUL'S 


_JL 


J% 


F-Ulr-roi^       S 


J  L 


me.£  r- 


AnN       St: 


AdOi/r  0-0   5r.   tiuu'a 


ABOUT   OLD   ST.    PAUL'S 


IN  the  chapel  of  St.  Paul,  and  in  the 
graveyard  that  surrounds  it,  there  are 
sights  enough  to  keep  a  thoughtful 
person  busy  during  more  than  one  long  day. 
To  see  the  people  hurrying  along  Broadway, 
without  even  a  glance  at  the 
dim,  old  building,  you  would 
never  think  so.  Close  by  the 
chapel  door,  which  faces  the 
churchyard,  there  is  a  bench, 
which  I  occupy  so  often  that 
I  have  come  to  feel  that  it  is 
my  personal  property.  It  rests 
close  by  the  ivy-covered  wall, 
and,  although  it  is  but  a  dozen 
steps  from  the  street,  the  intervening  church- 
yard gives  it  relief  and  quiet,  so  that  all  sight 

[75] 


ABOUT    OLD    ST.    PAUL'S 

and   sound    of   the    bustling    city    seem    shut 
off. 

Sometimes  there  are  visitors,  doubtless  at- 
tracted by  my  at-home  appearance  as  I  sit 
there,  who  ask  me  questions  about  the  church 
and  the  churchyard.  I  always  like  to  be 
asked  these  questions,  and  answer  them  as 
best  I  can.  It  the  questioners  are  interested, 
I  deliver  a  sort  of  lecture,  telling  how  very 
small  the  city  was  in  the  year  1 764,  when 
the  corner-stone  of  the  church  was  laid,  and 
how  the  building  was  opened  in  the  second 
year  after  that.  Then  I  wander  on,  and  tell 
how  there  were  fields  all  around  in  those 
days,  and  how  they  sloped  from  the  church 
door  right  down  to  the  river.  Sometimes, 
when  there  is  a  word  of  surprise  at  the 
many  houses  that  now  stand  between  the 
church  and  the  river,  I  explain  that  a  great 
deal  of  the  land  has  been  filled  in  during  the 
one  hundred  and  thirty-odd    years  that  have 

[76] 


ABOUT    OLD    ST.    PAUL'S 

passed,  and   that   it  has    become  too  valuable 
to  be  left  as  a  green  field. 

My    last    inquirer    was   an   old   gentleman, 
who  was  so   n>uch  more  in  earnest  than   the 


Broadway   below  St.  Paul's   Chapel,   1834. 


usual   curiosity-seeker,  that  I  asked  him  if  he 
had  lived  long  in  the  city. 

*'  I  am  only  here  for  a  time,  from  the 
West,"  said  he.  "  This  is  my  first  visit  to 
St.  Paul's,  although  I  love  every  stone  in  the 
old    building.      My    father,    when    he    was  a 

[77J 


ABOUT    OLD    ST.    PAUL'S 

child,  lived  near  here,  and,  although  he  left 
the  city  with  his  parents  in  his  youth,  he 
often  talked  to  me  of  this  church,  and  how 
he  had  played  among  the  tombstones  when 
he  was  a  boy.  But  the  church  seems  smaller 
than  I  have  imagined  it." 

And  then  I  told  him  that  to  me,  too,  the 
church  seemed  to  grow  smaller  each  year, 
but  this  was,  doubtless,  caused  by  the  tall 
buildings  growing  up  around  it ;  and  that 
the  church  had,  in  the  time  when  his  father 
knew  it,  been  considered  a  giant  of  a  building. 

The  old  man  nodded  his  head.  **  Yes, 
yes;  doubtless  so,"  said  he.  Then,  on  my 
invitation,  he  gladly  followed  me  into  the 
chapel,  and  I  led  the  way  to  the  pew,  off 
the  north  aisle,  where  George  Washington 
used  to  sit  when  he  attended  service,  and 
which  has  been  preserved  as  he  used  it. 

**  So  this  is  the  Washington  pew  ?  "  said 
my   companion,    as    he    tenderly    tapped    the 

[78] 


ABOUT    OLD    ST.    PAUL'S 

wood-work  against  which  he  leaned,  and 
looked  admiringly  at  the  coat-of-arms  of 
New  York  on  the  wall  above. 

"  Yes,   and    you    will    remember    that    in 
1776,  when  the  invading  British  force  came. 


Washington's   Pew  in   St.    Paul's   Chapel,    1789. 


the  city  was  fired,  Trinity  Church  was 
burned,  with  all  its  records,  and  the  flames 
swept  away  a  great  part  of  the  western  side 
of  the  city.  St.  Paul's  Chapel  was  saved, 
and     here,    during  the     British     occupation, 

[79] 


ABOUT   OLD    ST.    PAUL'S 

Lord  Howe,  the  English  commander,  and 
many  soldiers  of  the  King  attended  service. 
And  when  the  British  left  New  York,  and 
the  American  forces  came,  Washington  and 
his  army  took  their  places  in  the  church. 
And  to  this  church,  on  the  day  that  he  was 
inaugurated  as  first  President  of  the  United 
States,  came  Washington,  and  sat  in  this  pew 
in  which  we  now  sit.  Those  who  visited 
the  church  in  Washington's  time  have  left 
the  record  that  when  he  was  Commander- 
in-Chief,  and  in  the  days  when  he  was  Presi- 
dent, he  always  attended  the  church  without 
the  slightest  display,  that  he  walked  in  very 
quietly,  and  that  when  he  was  in  his  seat  he 
paid  not  the  slightest  attention  to  anything 
except  his  prayer-book  and  the  clergyman. 
During  all  the  time  that  he  was  in  the  city 
he  regularly,  each  week,  made  the  entry  for 
Sunday  in  his  diary,  *  Went  to  St.  Paul's 
Chapel  in  the  forenoon.' 

[80] 


...     Md 


||^|»Sl  BsalT-.'  2!^:'5q?ilil 


CQ 


u 


ABOUT    OLD    ST.    PAUL'S 

"  And  there  you  see  the  sounding-board 
on  the  pulpit,  with  the  coat-of-arms  of  the 
Prince  of  Wales  on  the  top.  During  Revo- 
lutionary days,  patriots  rushed  through  the 
city  and  destroyed  everything  that  suggested 
allegiance  to  England.  In  some  way,  this 
sounding  -  board  escaped  destruction,  so  that 
now  it  is  the  only  pre-Revolutionary  relic 
remaining  in  the  place  where  it  originally 
stood. 

"  There,  beside  the  west  wall,  is  a  bust  of 
John  Wells,  erected  by  the  members  of  the 
City  Bar.  He  was  a  talented  lawyer,  who 
died  in  1823.  Wells  was  the  sole  survivor 
of  a  large  family,  all  the  members  of  which, 
except  himself,  were  killed  by  Indians  at  the 
Cherry  Valley  massacre.  That  he  lived  was 
due  to  his  being  at  the  time  away  from  home 
attending  school.  He  came  to  the  city, 
practised  law  successfully  for  many  years,  and 
died  regretted  by  the  entire  fraternity." 

[83] 


ABOUT    OLD    ST.    PAUL'S 

These  things  and  others  in  the  chapel  I 
pointed  out  to  my  companion,  and  then  he 
followed  me  out  into  the  church-yard  again. 
We  noted  the  spot,  close  by  Vesey  Street, 
where  lay  the  remains  of  George  Backer, 
who  killed  the  son  of  Alexander  Hamilton 
in  a  duel,  a  few  years  before  the  great  states- 
man was  himself  killed  in  the  self-same  way. 
There  was  another  grave,  almost  in  the 
centre  of  the  yard,  of  a  man  who,  in  his  day, 
had  made  a  name  for  himself,  which  is 
almost  forgotten  now.  It  was  the  grave  of 
Christopher  Colles.  He  first  conceived  the 
idea  of  the  Erie  Canal,  and  delivered  lectures 
on  the  subject,  long  years  before  DeWitt 
Clinton  carried  the  project  to  a  successful 
conclusion.  It  was  this  same  Christopher 
Colles  who  built  a  reservoir  by  the  Collect 
Pond,  giving  New  York  her  first  water- 
works, and  applying  steam  practically  to  his 
pumping  -  station    ten     years    before    Fulton 

[84] 


ABOUT    OLD    ST.    PAUL'S 

applied    it    to    navigation.       Colles   died    in 
1 82 1,  a  poor  man. 

The  tall  monument  to  the  south  of  the 
church,  erected  to  the  memory  of  Thomas 
Addis  Emmet,  the  jurist,  and  brother  of 
Robert  Emmet,  interested  my  companion 
more  than  anything  else.  He  took  a  deep 
interest  in  deciphering  the  inscription  on  the 
west  side — a  curious  inscription  for  a  tomb- 
stone, for  it  reads, 

40    42'    40"    N., 
74    03'    21"    5W.L.G., 
and    tells    the    exact    latitude  and    longitude 
in  which  the  monument  is. 

When  we  came  to  the  monument  set  in 
the  chancel  window,  facing  the  street,  my 
companion  looked  at  me  inquiringly.  It 
was  just  after  the  celebration  of  Decoration 
Day,  and  a  wreath  of  fresh  flowers,  bound 
with  a  trailing  ribbon  of  imperial  purple, 
quite     hid     the     inscription    on    this    tomb. 

[85] 


ABOUT   OLD   ST.   PAUL'S 

Then  we  talked  over  the  story  of  the  brave 
hero  of  Quebec  —  Major- General  Richard 
Montgomery — whose  body  lies  beneath  the 
chancel ;  .spoke  of  how  he  had  fallen  in  that 
fateful  battle  of  1775  calling  on  the  men  of 
New  York  to  follow  where  he  led ;  how 
the  men  had  followed  him,  and  how  many 
of  them  had  fallen  with  their  general ;  of 
the  day,  forty-three  years  later,  when  the 
nation  for  which  he  had  died,  remembering 
his  brave  deeds,  had  brought  his  body  home 
to  the  city  from  its  first  resting  -  place  in 
Quebec  ;  how  on  that  day  the  city  had  been 
draped  in  mourning ;  how  the  streets  had 
resounded  to  the  tread  of  marching  feet,  and 
how  the  body  had  been  interred  beneath  the 
chancel,  where  the  monument  was  already 
set  up,  a  memorial  to  a  great  and  good  man, 
and  a  reminder  to  all  that  the  deeds  of  men 
live  after  them. 

And    then    we    reached    the    gate    which 
[86] 


ABOUT   OLD   ST.   PAUL'S 

opens  into  the  church  -  yard  from  Broad- 
way. For  a  few  moments  we  stood  silently 
looking  at  the  crowds  that  hurried  past. 
I  do  not  know  what  were  my  companion's 
thoughts  just  then,  but  my  own  were  ot 
those  other  men  who  a  hundred  years  before 
had  hurried  along  the  same  thoroughfare, 
and  of  whom  the  only  reminders  now  are  the 
tombstones  in  the  church-yard.  My  com- 
panion then  left  me,  mingled  with  the 
crowds,  and  was  soon  lost  to  sight. 

I  meant  to  have  told  him  that  to  know 
all  the  picturesqueness  of  Old  St.  Paul's  it 
should  be  visited  on  a  night  in  early  win- 
ter; one  of  those  dreary  nights  when  the 
rain  falls,  blurring  the  glare  of  lights  until 
those  from  each  separate  store-window  seem 
to  melt  together.  Then  all  the  noise  and 
bustle  settle  down  into  a  sullen  roar.  Wet 
and  dripping  horses  flounder  past ;  cable- 
cars    glide    along     with     clanging    sound  of 

[87] 


ABOUT   OLD    ST.   PAUL'S 

bell ;  people  knock  umbrellas  together  as 
they  hurry  on.  The  rain,  the  noise,  the 
confusion,  the  lights,  bewilder  the  brain. 
As  one  passes  the  Astor  House,  where  the 
confusion  is  greatest,  the  lights  most  daz- 
zling, the  crowds  largest  and  most  in  a 
hurry,  you  suddenly  come  upon  the  church- 
yard. It  is  merely  to  cross  narrow  Vesey 
Street — but  it  is  like  stepping  from  day  to 
night.  The  sight  of  the  dark,  old  church 
and  the  quiet  tombs  behind  the  tall  iron 
fence  breathe  of  silence  and  comfort.  In 
the  daytime  the  tombstones  are  brown  and 
faded,  but  on  these  rainy  nights  the  lights 
creeping  in  through  the  bars  make  them 
white  as  snow. 

A  quaint,  curious  corner,  side  by  side  with 
the  roar  and  rush  of  the  city.  The  rusty 
iron  railing  is  a  barrier  seeming  to  shut  out 
noise  and  life,  as  though  to  protect  the  sleepers 
in  their  well-earned  rest. 

[88] 


GREENWICH    VILLAGE    AND 
THE    "MOUSE-TRAP" 


'<mi7- 


GREENWICH     VILLAGE     AND 
THE     ^^  MOUSE-TRAP" 

SOME  streets  are  like  pages  of  history, 
and  none  more  so  than  those  of  Green- 
wich Village  ;  so  that  it  is  quite  a  de- 
light to  walk  among  them.  Whenever  I  do 
so  I  am  sure  to  end  up  in  one  particular  spot. 
It  is  a  part  that  I  have  christened  the 
"  Mouse-trap  " — a  labyrinth  of  quiet,  narrow 
streets.  There  is  one  that  is  lined  with 
sleepy-looking  shops,  and  others  with  irregu- 
lar dwellings  of  the  kind  that  were  plentiful 
enough  seventy  and  eighty  and  a  hundred 
years  ago,  but  of  which  there  are  few  to  be 
found  now,  except  here  in  the  "  Mouse-trap." 
In  these  side  streets  you  can  find  ancient 
doorways  with  carved  side  -  posts ;  find 
wrought-iron  fences  and  gates ;  find  dormer 

[9>] 


GREENWICH    VILLAGE   AND 

windows  that  went  out  of  fashion  before  most 
of  us  were  born ;  find  circular  windows 
jammed  in  between  square  ones ;   find  every- 


An   Old   Home  in   Greenwich  Village. 

thing  that  is  old  and  quaint,  but  nothing  that 
is  of  this  day  and  generation. 

It  is  curious  to  note  the  different  ways  in 
which  the  streets  of  the  **  Mouse-trap  "  dis- 
appear. Sometimes  they  end  abruptly  in  a 
court ;    sometimes    they    twist    out    of   sight 

[92] 


THE   "MOUSE-TRAP" 

around  a  row  of  houses  against  which  they 
are  brought  with  a  sudden  halt ;  sometimes 
they  slip  into  another  street  and  become  one 
with  it ;  sometimes  they  are  cut  short  by 
little  open  spaces  which  are  called  parks,  and 
in  which  there  are  a  few  decaying  trees. 

In  this  "  Mouse-trap  "  you  can  wander 
about  for  hours  and  lose  all  sense  of  where 
you  are.  You  may  feel  quite  sure  that  you 
are  walking  north,  when  all  at  once  you  hnd 
that  you  are  walking  east  and  are  practically 
lost !  A  man  has  lately  insisted  to  me  that 
there  is  no  Greenwich  Village  ;  that  there 
had  been  one  eighty  years  ago,  but  that  there 
was  now  no  trace  of  it.  As  the  man  had 
lived  in  the  city  all  his  life,  I  was  quite  fran- 
tic. No  Greenwich  Village  !  I  pointed  to 
a  map  of  the  city  to  show  the  iconoclast  the 
irregular  grouping  of  streets  along  the  Hud- 
son River,  where  anyone  can  see  with  half  an 
eye  that  the  Greenwich  Village  streets  were 

[93] 


GREENWICH   VILLAGE   AND 

such  a  tangled  network  that,  try  as  they 
might  to  connect  with  the  streets  of  the  city, 
they  had  not  done  so  and  never  could.  Then 
I  took  him  to  the  village  itself,  to  show  him 
how  the  city  streets  and  the  village  streets 
came  together,  but,  like  chemicals  of  oppos- 
ing natures,  refused  to  join.  Thus  I  proved 
conclusively  that  there  was  a  Greenwich 
Village  as  separate  as  though  the  vacant 
swamps  and  sand  stretches  and  the  Minetta 
Brook  closed  it  in  as  they  once  had.  Then 
I  led  him  to  the  "  Mouse-trap,"  to  show  that 
Greenwich  Village  was  not  much  changed 
from  what  it  had  been  years  ago. 

The  main  street  of  the  "  Mouse-trap," 
lined  with  quiet  little  shops,  is  called  Bleecker 
Street  now,  although  it  has  had  several  other 
names.  In  its  early  days  it  was  a  country- 
road  leading  from  Minetta  Brook  to  Green- 
wich. One  of  the  outlets  is  Grove  Street. 
If  you   stand   in    Bleecker   Street   and  count 

[94] 


THE   "MOUSE-TRAP" 

four  houses  east  from  Grove,  you  will  find  a 
low  frame  house,  with  a  shop  on  the  first 
floor,  having  a  door  beside  it  which  is  the 
entrance  to  the  rooms  above — a  door  quite 
worn  away  with  much  scrubbing,  and  neat  as 
any  new-made  pin.  This  house  stood  right 
here  in  the  year  1809.  Examine  it  while  I 
tell  you  what  the  "  Mouse-trap  "  was  like  in 
those  days. 

The  house  stood  in  the  midst  of  farm 
lands  close  by  Greenwich  Village,  and  more 
than  a  mile  from  town.  On  this  mile 
of  sandy  stretch  there  were  several  country- 
houses  with  their  surrounding  grounds.  One 
was  the  Richmond  Hill  house,  in  which 
Aaron  Burr  lived  at  the  time  he  killed  Alex- 
ander Hamilton.  Just  a  little  way  north  of 
this  old  place  was  the  house  which  Admiral 
Peter  Warren  built  when  he  married  Su- 
sannah De  Lancey,  in  1741,  and  gave  the 
Greenwich  district   its   tone  as  a  fashionable 

[95] 


GREENWICH   VILLAGE   AND 

environment  for  country-houses ;  and  near  by, 
on  the  water-side,  was  the  State  Penitentiary, 
with  a  high  wall  enclosing  its  stone  buildings. 

All  these  fine  houses  have  been  swept 
away,  but  the  humble  little  dwelling  on 
Bleecker  Street  has  endured. 

It  was  pointed  out  as  a  place  of  interest 
even  in  the  year  1809,  for  there  lived  in  it  a 
man,  very  old  then,  whose  name  was  famous. 
In  this  house  Thomas  Paine,  the  author  of 
the  "Age  of  Reason,"  passed  all  but  a  few 
of  the  last  days  of  his  life.  He  lived  there, 
cared  for  by  a  Frenchwoman  named  Madame 
Bonneville,  whose  two  sons  also  lived  with 
her.  Paine's  room  was  on  the  ground-floor, 
where  the  shop  is  now,  and  on  any  mild  day 
in  summer  the  passer-by  could  see  him  sitting 
at  the  south  window,  reading  in  a  book 
which  was  open  on  a  small  table  before  him. 
He  was  seventy-two  years  old  when,  in  May, 
1809,  the  household  removed  to  a  dwelling 

[96] 


THE   "MOUSE-TRAP" 

close  by  their  old  home.  There  Paine  be- 
came ill,  and  was  visited  by  two  clergymen, 
who  sought  to  convince  him  of  the  error  of 
his  beliefs.  But  Paine  would  not  even  listen 
to  them,  and  when  they  had  gone  he  said  to 
Madame  Bonneville  :  "  Don't  let  them  come 
here  again  ;  they  trouble  me."  But  they  did 
come  again,  nevertheless,  and  were  met  at 
the  door  by  Madame  Bonneville,  who  refused 
to  admit  them.  '*  If  God  does  not  change 
his  mind,  I  am  sure  no  human  power  can," 
said  she.      In  a  few  days  Paine  died. 

The  house  stood  for  only  a  few  years,  and 
then  Grove  Street  was  opened  and  it  was  torn 
down.  A  row  of  brick  buildings  was  set 
up.  Several  of  them  still  remain,  and  the 
one  numbered  59  stands  on  the  site  of  the 
frame  house  in  which  Thomas  Paine  died. 

After  a  time  another  street  was  laid  out 
through  the  open  field  near  by,  and  was  called 
Reason   Street,  in  Paine's  honor.      It  was  not 

[97] 


THE   "MOUSE-TRAP" 

long,  however,  before  this  was  corrupted  to 
Raisin  Street,  and  now  it  is  called  Barrow 
Street. 

At  the  time  of  the  small-pox  scare,  in 
1822,  when  thousands  of  people  hurried  to 
Greenwich  Village  to  escape  it,  houses  there- 
abouts grew  up  rapidly.  Streets  were  laid 
out  following  the  convenience  of  the  house- 
builders,  and  there  being  no  fixed  plans  in 
their  several  minds,  the  labyrinthine  "  Mouse- 
trap "  came  into  existence. 


[98] 


A    READING    OF    HISTORIC 
TABLETS 


^  i?BA0ii4i    ol  Hi^roRic  Ukuat  :y 


A    READING    OF    HISTORIC 
TABLETS 

ON  a  day  in  early  summer  I  met  a  very 
old  man  standing  where  Broadway 
begins,  and  there  was  something  so 
kindly  in  his  manner  that  I  ventured  to  stop 
and  see  why  he  gazed  so  long  at  a  slab  of 
bronze  fastened  to  the  wall  of  the  house  at 
No.  I  Broadway.  It  was  a  tablet  placed  there 
by  one  of  the  patriotic  societies  to  mark  the 
place  on  Bowling  Green  where  the  statue  of 
King  George  III.  had  stood  in  Revolutionary 
days. 

There  must  have  been  something  sympa- 
thetic in  my  manner,  for  the  old  gentleman 
beamed  as  I  stood  beside  him  and  read  the 
inscribed  words. 

[.OI] 


A    READING    OF    HISTORIC    TABLETS 

**  You,  too,  study  the  tablets,  I  see,"  said 
he.  **  It  is  one  of  the  best  ways  really  to 
understand  history.  Books  seem  dry  when 
we  can  visit  real  scenes,  and  by  reminders 
like  this,"  pointing  with  his  cane,  "recall 
what  has  happened  on  the  self-same  spot." 

When  I  hinted  that  I  was  interested  in  all 
that  had  an  old-time  flavor,  he  told  me  that 
he  was  seeking  out  the  city's  tablets,  and 
would  be  glad  to  have  me  accompany  him. 
And  so  I  did.  • 

"  Before  we  start,"  said  he,  **  let  me  tell 
you  how  I  study.  Forgetting  the  lofty  build- 
ings that  rise  above  me,  the  modern  vehicles, 
and  the  rush  of  busy  life,  I  try  to  imagine 
what  the  town  was  like  at  the  time  of  which 
this  tablet  tells.  I  see  a  village  filled  with 
soldiers  of  the  Continental  Army  and  all  astir 
with  the  news  that  a  new  nation  has  been 
formed.  I  hear  a  far-away  shout — it  comes 
from  the  Common,  where  George  Washing- 

[102] 


A    READING    OF    HISTORIC    TABLETS 

ton  is  reading  the  Declaration  of  Indepen- 
dence to  the  soldiers.  The  shouts  grow 
louder  and  louder,  for  the  townspeople  have 
reached  the  City  Hall  in  Wall  Street  and  are 
tearing  to  tatters  the  picture  of  King  George 
that  hangs  there.  Louder  still  grow  the 
shouts,  for  the  citizens  (quite  a  mob  now) 
are  coming  nearer.  They  are  upon  us  ;  they 
throng  the  Bowling  Green  ;  they  tear  down 
the  iron  railing  around  King  George's  statue ; 
they  batter  off  the  heads  of  the  royal  family 
from  the  posts.  Now  one  man  has  climbed 
up  the  base  that  supports  the  leaden  horse 
and  its  royal  master;  others  throw  him  a 
rope  which  he  puts  about  the  horse's  neck. 
There  is  a  cry  that  rises  above  the  general 
din,  a  straining  at  the  rope,  and  the  horse 
and  rider  fall  to  the  ground  and  are  dragged 
away.  Surely,"  he  exclaimed,  **  that  is  a 
glowing  page  from  history  L" 
"  Indeed  it  is,"  I  answered. 
[>°3] 


A   READING   OF    HISTORIC   TABLETS 

He  grasped  my  arm  and  we  crossed  Broad- 
way, turning  into  the  first  side  street. 

"This,"  said  my  guide,  "is  the  old 
Beaver's  Lane.  Down  that  narrow  way  to 
the  right  you  can  see  just  a  suggestion  of 
what  was  called  Petticoat  Lane,  now  almost 
blurred  out  of  existence  by  fine  houses.  It 
was  there  that  the  Hartfordshire  and  York- 
shire Tavern  stood  in  which  Admiral  Peter 
Warren  enlisted  his  men  before  he  sailed 
away  to  capture  Louisburg  in  1745.  The 
sheep-pasture  that  was  hereabouts  is  gone. 
But  here  we  are  at  Broad  Street.  You  know 
why  it  is  so  broad  ?  It  was  once  a  canal  with 
a  walk  on  each  side  and  a  bridge  across  it 
where  Bridge  Street  is  now,  from  which  the 
young  men  of  the  town  used  to  fish.  But 
the  canal  became  too  old-fashioned  for  the 
town,  so  it  was  filled  in. 

"  We   turn  the  corner.      What  do  we  see  ? 
Another  tablet  surely  !      A  fine  large  one  this 

[104] 


A    READING    OF    HISTORIC    TABLETS 

time,  with  a  bas-relief  showing  a  covered 
wagon  and  some  British  soldiers.  See  that 
man  grasping  the  bridle  of  the  officer's  horse. 
That's  Marinus  Willett.  It  happened  in  the 
year  1775  that  the  British  soldiers  were  on 
their  way  to  Boston  with  large  stores  of  am- 
munition. But  the  Sons  of  Liberty  had  deter- 
mined that  no  ammunition  should  leave  the 
town.  So  Marinus  Willett  stopped  the  trav- 
ellers, and  those  other  hgures  that  you  see  in 
the  distance  are  the  Sons  of  Liberty  coming 
to  the  aid  of  Willett.  Another  half-  hour 
and  the  soldiers  would  have  gotten  off,  but 
Willett  halted  them  single-handed,  right  here 
on  the  very  spot  on  which  we  stand." 

The  old  man  talked  on  with  a  line  vein  of 
enthusiasm  in  his  voice. 

We  turned  from  the  Willett  Tablet,  and  my 
companion,  drawing  me  along  Broad  Street, 
said  :  '*  When  we  pass  two  streets  farther  on 
you    will   see  a   landmark   that  should    make 

[■°5] 


A    READING    OF    HISTORIC    TABLETS 

your  blood  tingle.  There  it  is,  that  square 
building  on  the  corner,  a  little  disfigured, 
with  small  windows  that  proclaim  it  of 
another  decade.  That  is  Fraunces's  Tavern, 
the  house  that   Etienne  De  Lancey  built  and 


Washington's   Farewell  in   Fraunces's  Taverno 

lived  in  until  Sam  Fraunces,  in  1762,  turned 
it  into  a  tavern,  where  Washington  had  his 
head-quarters  and  bade  his  officers  farewell 
when  the  Revolution  was  at  an  end.  You  can 
see  the  tablet  near  the  Pearl  Street  entrance. 
What  fine  tales  these  old  walls  could  tell ! 

[,06] 


A    READING    OF    HISTORIC   TABLETS 

"  The  next  tablet  is  only  a  few  steps  on," 
said  the  old  man,  with  a  last  longing  look  at 
the  old  tavern,  and,  when  we  had  taken  those 
few  steps  and  stood  at  Coenties  Slip,  he 
pointed   to   the  second  story  of  a   warehouse. 


"  Stadt  Huys"   at  Coenties  Slip. 

There  was  a  tablet,  but  so  high  up  that  the 
inscription  upon  it  could  not  be  read.  But 
my  guide  knew  every  word  of  it.  A  stone 
tavern,  he  explained,  had  been  built  on  the 
spot  by  Governor   Kieft,   in    1642,   and    that 

[107] 


A    READING    OF    HISTORIC    TABLETS 

tavern  had  afterward  become  the  Stadt  Huys 
— the  first  City  Hall  of  New  Amsterdam — 
where  the  burgomasters  and  schepens  con- 
ducted the  business  of  the  town  ;  where 
Kieft  often  proved  that  he  came  honestly  by 
his  title  of  *'  William  the  Testy  "  ;  and  where 
Peter  Stuyvesant  laid  down  the  law  to  the 
townspeople.  My  guide  also  pointed  out  the 
spot  close  at  hand  where  the  whipping-post 
had  stood,  and  where  the  gallows  had  been  on 
which  negro  slaves  were  executed, 

A  dozen  houses  farther  along  Pearl  Street 
we  stopped  again,  before  a  record  telling  that 
here  William  Bradford  had  set  up  the  first 
printing-press  in  the  colony  ;  and  across  the 
street  was  still  another,  calling  the  attention 
of  each  passer-bv  to  the  fact  that  there  was  a 
"  great  fire  "  in  1833,  when  most  of  the  busi- 
ness section  of  the  town  was  wiped  out. 

"  But,"  said  the  old  man,  pointing  to  the 
last,    "  there   was   another    fire    even    greater 

[108J 


A    READING   OF    HISTORIC   TABLETS 

which  started  in  this  same  locality.  It  hap- 
pened on  the  day  that  the  British  marched 
into  New  York  after  Washington's  defeat  on 
Long  Island.  The  flames  swept  over  the 
town,    crossed    Broadway,    destroyed    Trinity 


The   Ruins  of  Trinitv   Church   after  the  Great   Fire  in    1776. 

Church  and  all  the  houses  about  it,  scorched 
St.  Paul's,  and  was  only  extinguished  when  it 
reached  the  grounds  of  King's  College,  be- 
yond the  Common." 

My  companion   talked  of  this  fire   in  great 
detail    as    we    walked    along,    only    stopping 

[109] 


A   READING   OF    HISTORIC   TABLETS 

long  enough,  when  we  reached  Nassau  Street, 
to  tell  me  that  this  thoroughfare  had  at  first 
been  called  the  Pie  Woman's  Lane.  He  had 
not  yet  finished  telling  about  it  when  we  came 
to  Cedar  Street,  and  he  called  out,  '*  Another 
tablet!" 

This  was  where  the  Middle  Dutch  Church 
stood.  **  But,"  said  he,  sadly,  "  that  was  a 
long  time  ago,  when  the  streets  were  roads, 
and  when  the  ripening  grain  brushed  the 
church-wall.  The  church  stood  for  a  great 
many  years,  and  was  a  fine  building  still,  as  I 
remember  it,  for  I  went  to  service  there  with 
my  father.  It  was  square,  with  a  tower-like 
steeple,  with  the  pulpit  between  the  two 
entrances,  and  the  pews  fitted  with  doors,  and 
so  high-backed  and  straight  that  few  persons 
who  sat  in  them  could  touch  the  floor  with 
their  feet.  The  church  was  turned  into  a 
riding-school  for  the  soldiers  when  the  Brit- 
ish occupied  the  city,  and  later  into  a  prison. 

[no] 


A    READING    OF    HISTORIC    TABLETS 

After  the  British  left,  it  was  restored,  and 
services  were  held  there  until  1844,  when  it 
became  the  Post-office,  and  remained  so  for 
thirty  years." 

We  had  now  reached  another  bronze  tab- 
let, at  John  Street,  marking  the  battle  of 
Golden  Hill,  which  was  fought  in  the  early 
days  of  the  Revolution,  after  the  British  sol- 
diers had  torn  down  the  liberty-pole  on  the 
Common. 

"  See  there,"  said  my  guide,  pointing  with 
his  cane  up  William  Street ;  "  there  stands 
Golden  Hill  Inn,  about  which  the  battle  was 
fought.  It  is  a  factory  now,  but  even  mod- 
ern fixing-up  cannot  hide  the  tiny  bricks  of 
which  it  is  built,  and  which  were  brought 
from  Holland,  or  the  tall  chimney  stretching 
toward  the  roof  of  surrounding  houses,  or 
the  many  little  touches  that  speak  of  bygone 
days." 

He  turned  regretfully  from  the  old  inn 
[■■3] 


A   READING   OF    HISTORIC    TABLETS 

and  was  silent  as  we  continued  our  way  to 
the  Post-office,  where,  in  the  corridor,  we 
stood  before  a  tablet  which  told  that  the  lib- 
erty-pole had  been  close  by.  And  then  on 
again,  into  the  City  Hall  Park,  to  read,  under 


Lispenard's   Meadow. 

the  Mayor's  window,  that  there  Washington 
read  the  Declaration  of  Independence  to  the 
soldiers. 

"  But  it  was  not  a  park  in  those  days,"  said 
my  companion,  **  simply  a  bare  bit  of  ground 


A    READING    OF    HISTORIC    TABLETS 

that  surrounded  the  Bridewell  and  the  New 
Jail.  To  the  west  was  King's  College,  and 
still  farther  on  an  uninterrupted  view  of  the 
river.  There,  to  the  north,  was  the  deep 
Collect  Pond,  and  the  stream  leading  through 
Lispenard's  Meadow.  To  the  east,  where 
Park  Row  is  now,  was  the  Post-road,  and 
the  Brick  Presbyterian  Church  stood  where 
the  Times  Building  now  is.  Down  that  way 
to  the  south  was  all  there  was  of  the  city,  a 
very  little  town,  indeed,  with  crooked  streets 
and  low  houses,  now  so  transformed  that 
scarcely  a  trace  of  them  remains." 

Saying  this,  he  wished  me  good-day,  with 
a  courteous  bow. 

I  left  him  looking  steadfastly  southward, 
dreaming  of  the  past,  and  doubtless  passing 
in  review  a  host  of  shadows  that  only  he 
could  see. 


r>'5i 


THE    STORY    OF    CHATHAM 
SQUARE 


uie.    Sr  fifty     „Z   C%/ 


Sq, 


-r  */./-,  JQoAH^ 


THE    STORY    OF    CHATHAM 
SQUARE 

TO  learn  all  tha.t  there  is  to  know  of 
Chatham  Square,  it  will  be  neces- 
sary to  look  back  on  the  history  of 
the  city  more  than  250  years.  A  very  few 
rudely  built  houses  standing  close  by  the 
present  Bowling  Green  made  up  the  town  of 
that  time,  and  Chatham  Square  was  a  little 
clearing  in  the  forest.  Much  of  the  island 
was  a  wilderness,  and  between  the  houses  of 
the  settlement  and  the  clearing  in  the  forest 
there  was  a  solitary  lane,  narrow  and  lonely. 
Many  changes  came  to  the  land  about  the 
clearing.  Gradually,  very  gradually,  the 
forest  disappeared;  the  lane  became  a  road, 
then  a  street ;  the  settlement  became  a 
town,  then   a   city   that,  creeping   toward   the 

["9j 


THE  STORY  OF  CHATHAM  SQUARE 

north,  reached  the  clearing  and  passed  be- 
yond it.  The  inclosing  fences  of  the  clear- 
ing gave  way  to  houses.  The  streets  were 
paved.  And,  finally,  when  it  would  seem 
that  everything  had  been  done  to  blot  out 
the  gap  in  the  forest,  the  elevated  railroad 
came  to  put  a  sort  of  roof  over  the  space  and 
still  further  to  change  its  original  appearance. 
But  through  all  the  changes  there  has  still 
remained  that  same  open  space.  It  came 
into  existence  in  this  way  :  Up  to  the  time 
that  William  Kieft  (who  was  called  William 
the  Testy)  came  to  be  Governor  of  New 
Amsterdam,  which  was  New  York's  name 
in  those  days,  the  town  was  nothing  more 
than  a  place  where  fur-traders  lived,  who 
had  no  very  strong  intention  of  making  it 
their  home.  Kieft  came  in  the  year  1637. 
About  this  time  the  Dutch  West  India 
Company,  which  had  control  of  *the  Island 
of  Manhattan,    with    much    other  land,  de- 

[120] 


u 


THE  STORY  OF  CHATHAM  SQUARE 

cided  that  if  the  town  of  New  Amsterdam 
was  to  be  a  permanent  settlement  that  would 
grow  into  a  city,  it  would  be  necessary  to 
offer  inducements  for  colonists  to  make  a 
home  on  the  island.  So  this  company  made 
some  very  generous  offers  of  land  on  most 
fair  conditions:  The  eastern  side  of  the 
island,  as  far  as  to  where  Fourteenth  Street  is 
now,  was  divided  into  six  farms  (called 
bouweries),  and  colonists  settled  upon  them. 
The  one  road  which  connected  the  bou- 
weries with  the  settlement  at  the  lower  point 
of  the  island  was  afterward  called  the  Bou- 
werie  Lane,  and  was  the  beginning  of  the 
present  Bowery.  But  there  were  a  great 
many  Indians  on  the  island,  and  they  gave 
the  settlers  on  the  bouweries  very  little  rest 
or  time  tor  cultivating  the  land.  So  these 
settlements  were  not  of  a  permanent  nature, 
which  fact  leads  up  to  the  story  of  the  birth 
of  Chatham  Square. 


THE  STORY  OF  CHATHAM  SQUARE 

Some  time,  quite  near  to  that  when 
Kieft's  rule  gave  place  to  that  of  Peter  Stuy- 
vesant,  which  was  in  the  year  1647,  a  set- 
tlement was  established  on  a  hill  close  by 
where  Chatham  Square  now  is.  There  had 
been  an  Indian  lookout  station  there,  which 
had  been  called  Werpoes.  On  this  hill,  ten 
or  twelve  negroes,  with  their  wives,  made 
their  home.  All  had  been  slaves,  to  whom 
freedom  had  been  given  because  they  were 
too  old  to  work.  The  settlement  was  headed 
by  Emanuel  de  Groot,  who  was  so  tall,  and 
in  his  younger  years  had  been  so  strong, 
that  he  was  still  called  *'  the  giant."  These 
settlers  were  given  the  land,  but  in  return 
they  were  each  compelled  to  pay  the  town 
one  hog  and  twenty-two  and  one-half 
bushels  of  grain  a  year.  Although  they 
were  free,  their  children  were  to  remain 
slaves.  One  of  their  earliest  tasks  was  to 
fence   in  a  space  where  the    cattle  could  be 

[124] 


u 


THE   STORY   OF    CHATHAM    SQUARE 

kept  to  prevent  their  wandering  and  being 
lost  in  the  forest,  which  stretched  away  on 
every  side.  It  was  this  corral  which,  in 
after-years,  became  Chatham  Square. 

The  street  which  stretches  south  from 
Chatham  Square,  and  which  is  now  called 
Park  Row,  has  only  borne  that  name  since 
1886.  Before  that  time  it  was  Chatham 
Street.  It  got  its  name  as  the  square  did, 
shortly  before  the  Revolution,  from  William 
Pitt,  Earl  of  Chatham,  the  people  wishing 
to  perpetuate  the  name  of  the  man  who  had 
defended  the  American  colonies  in  aiding  to 
have  the  Stamp  Act  repealed.  The  people 
had  also,  in  1770,  erected  a  statue  to  the 
same  Earl  of  Chatham  in  Wall  Street.  But 
in  1776  British  soldiers  dragged  it  down  and 
knocked  off  its  head.  For  twenty-iive  years 
after  that,  the  headless  statue  lay  neglected 
with  the  city's  cast-off  relics,  when,  all  bat- 
tered  as   it   was,  it   was  given   a   place   beside 

[127] 


THE  STORY  OF  CHATHAM  SQUARE 

the  door  of  Riley's  Fifth  Ward  Hotel,  at 
West  Broadway  and  Franklin  Street.  All 
that  remains  of  it  can  be  seen  now  in  the 
rooms  of  the  Historical  Society. 

Walk  one  block  south  from  Chatham 
Square,  along  Park  Row,  stand  where  Mul- 
berry Street  has  its  beginning,  and  toward 
the  west  you  will  see  a  patch  of  green.  It 
is  the  Mulberry  Bend  Park. 

On  that  same  block,  until  the  park  was 
established  a  few  years  ago,  was  the  Mulberry 
Bend  slum.  At  one  side  of  the  slum  was  the 
celebrated  Five  Points,  a  place  with  an  inter- 
national reputation  for  vice.  That  locality 
has  had  a  place  in  the  history  of  the  city  for 
more  than  a  century  and  a  half.  During  the 
year  1741,  when  there  were  only  10,000  in- 
habitants, and  2,000  of  those  were  negro 
slaves,  the  negro  insurrection  occurred.  There 
were  mysterious  fires  in  the  town,  and  the 
slaves  were  suspected.      Eighteen  negroes  were 

[108J 


THE  STORY  OF  CHATHAM  SQUARE 

hanged  and  four  white  persons.  Fourteen 
negroes  were  burned  at  the  stake  in  a  wood 
near  what  afterward  became  the  Five  Points. 

From  the  northern  end  of  Chatham  Square 
starts  the  Bowery,  and  a  few  steps  from  its 
commencement  is  the  building  now  used  as  a 
German  theatre,  which  was  once  the  Old 
Bowery.  Before  the  Bowery  Theatre,  and 
previous  to  the  Revolution,  this  same  site  was 
occupied  by  a  building  which  has  a  place  in 
history  because  Washington  slept  in  it.  This 
was  the  Bull's  Head  Tavern.  Being  close  by 
the  city  slaughter-houses,  all  the  butchers  who 
came  to  town  stopped  at  this  inn,  making  it 
the  first  commercial  inn  of  its  day. 

During  the  Revolution,  Henry  Astor  owned 
the  Bull's  Head  Tavern.  He  leased  it  to  Rich- 
ard Varian.  But  V'arian  went  privateering, 
and  left  the  inn  to  be  conducted   by  his  wife. 

Astor  was  a  butcher,  and  conducted  his 
business  in  the  Fly  Market   in  Maiden  Lane. 

[129  I 


THE  STORY  OF  CHATHAM  SQUARE 

He  incurred  the  enmity  of  all  the  butchers  in 
the  town  by  conceiving  the  brilliant  idea  of 
riding  far  out  along  the  Bowery  Lane,  meet- 
ing the  drovers  as  they  brought  their  cattle  to 
town,  and  buying  their  stock,  which  he  sold 
to  the  other  butchers  at  his  own  price.  As 
the  lane  was  really  the  only  road  to  the  city, 
Astor  in  this  way  formed  a  trust  and  prospered 
for  many  years.  The  inn,  too,  prospered  un- 
til 1826,  when  it  gave  place  to  the  Bowery 
Theatre. 

The  street  which  juts  out  of  the  east  side 
of  Chatham  Square,  and  which  is  called  the 
New  Bowery,  contains  an  interesting  relic. 
Half  a  dozen  steps  down  this  thoroughfare  is 
a  space  between  tenements.  The  ground  is 
high  above  the  street  level,  and  a  rusty  iron 
railing  is  set  in  a  wall  which  is  crumbling 
and  yellow  with  age.  Far  above,  at  all  hours 
of  the  day,  strings  of  drying  clothes  flutter  in 
the    breeze.      Behind    the    iron   railing   there 

[■30J 


THE  STORY  OF  CHATHAM  SQUARE 

are  tombstones  in  various  stages  of  decay.  It 
is  the  remnant  ot  a  Jewish  graveyard,  opened 
in  1 68  I,  and  at  that  time  attached  to  the  first 
Jewish  congregation  in  the  city,  whose  syna- 
gogue was  in  Mill  (now  South  William) 
Street.  The  yard  was  cut  to  its  present  insig- 
nificant proportions  in  1856,  when  the  street 
was  opened.  And  since  that  time  the  im- 
provements about  Chatham  Square  have  gone 
steadily  on,  until  now  little  is  left  to  suggest 
what  the  square  was  in  the  years  long  past. 


[■3>l 


SOME  ISLANDS   OF  THE  EAST 
RIVER 


^^  East  fJn/BR^ 


SOME   ISLANDS  OF  THE   EAST 
RIVER 

WHO  has  nen  heard  of  prisoners  being 
sent  to  "The  Island"?  and  who 
does  not  know  that  "  The  Island  " 
is  a  place  given  over  to  wrong-doers?  And 
who  has  not  a  vague  idea  that  there  are 
other  islands  in  the  East  River  which  are 
occupied  by  city  institutions  ?  But  how  few 
appreciate  that  in  all  the  city  limits  there  are 
no  prettier  pictures  of  green  and  beautiful 
country  than  these  same  islands  ?  To  learn 
the  truth  of  this,  take  a  ride  on  any  ot  the 
East  River  boats. 

When  the  boat  has  fairly  started,  the  wide 
river  has  the  appearance  of  a  lake.  Straight 
ahead,  a  long,  low  building  of  stone,  much 
like  a  feudal  fortress,  seems  to  extend  from 

l'35i 


SOME    ISLANDS    OF   THE   EAST   RIVER 

the  Manhattan  to  the  Brooklyn  side.  But 
as  the  boat  goes  on,  a  thin,  silvery  line  ap- 
pears on  each  side  of  the  stone  pile,  where 
the  river  is  broken  into  two  channels  by  a 
narrow  island.  As  the  boat  sweeps  into  the 
west  channel,  the  turreted  pile  is  seen  to  be  a 
structure  with  detached  buildings — a  hospital 
and  a  prison.  About  it,  stretching  to  the 
water's  edge,  are  lawns  dotted  with  trees  and 
intersected  by  winding  roads.  In  strange  con- 
trast to  the  noisy,  bustling  city  across  the  nar- 
row stretch  of  water,  on  this  island  everything 
is  quiet.  Not  a  sound  can  be  heard  from 
the  water,  not  the  faintest  sign  ot  life  is  to  be 
seen,  except  sometimes  on  the  winding  roads 
a  line  of  men  crawling  along,  one  behind  the 
other,  with   rhythmical   step — prisoners. 

This  is  John  Manning's  Island,  called 
Blackwell's  Island  these  two  hundred  years. 

John  Manning  had  been  captain  of  a  vessel 
which  traded  between  New  York  and  New 

[136J 


SOME    ISLANDS    OF  THE   EAST   RIVER 

Haven.  He  was  made  sheriff  of  New  York 
when  it  passed  into  the  possession  of  the 
British.  With  the  reward  of  office,  he  pur- 
chased an  island  that  had  been  named  by 
the  Indians  "  Minnahannonck,"  and  at  that 
time  was  called  '*  Long  Island."  What  is 
now  Long  Island  was  then  Nassau  Island. 

When  the  Dutch  retook  New  Netherland, 
in  1673,  Manning  was  in  command,  Gov- 
ernor Lovelace  being  in  Boston.  For  sur- 
rendering the  territory  without  a  struggle  he 
was  court-martialled  and  found  guilty.  His 
sword  was  taken  from  him  publicly  as  he 
stood  before  the  Stadt  Huys,  and  was  broken. 
Retiring  to  his  beautiful  island,  he  lived  lux- 
uriously, and  at  his  death  bequeathed  the 
property  to  his  stepdaughter.  She  was  the 
wife  of  Robert  Blackwell,  in  whose  honor 
the  island  was  renamed.  In  1828  the  city 
acquired  the  property. 

Opposite   the  northern   end   ot   Blackwell's 


SOME    ISLANDS    OF   THE   EAST   RIVER 

Island,  on  the  Manhattan  side,  there  is  a 
beautiful  spot  and  pleasant  of  memory,  for  it 
was  close  upon  this  point  that  Washington 
Irving  spent  several  of  his  summers.  On  the 
Long  Island  side  is  Astoria.  At  this  point  the 
river  widens,  and,  looking  upon  the  placid 
waters,  one  can  scarcely  imagine  this  to  be 
dangerous  Hell  Gate,  dreaded  by  early  nav- 
igators as  a  veritable  maelstrom.  Its  ter- 
rors are  of  the  long  ago,  for  they  vanished 
after  the  explosion  of  tons  of  dynamite  that 
shattered  the  hidden  rocks,  destroyed  the 
homes  of  game  fish  and  lobsters  that  had  in- 
habited the  Gate  time  out  of  mind,  and  gave 
an  inheritance  to  craft  of  every  sort. 

Entering  Hell  Gate,  the  boat  passes  over 
the  dangerous  reef  to  which  superstitious 
sailors  gave  the  name  of  "Devil's  Gridiron." 
Boiling  waters  and  treacherous  tides  have  sub- 
sided, and  nothing  suggestive  of  danger  now 
remains,  except  its  name. 

[140] 


SOME    ISLANDS    OF   THE   EAST    RIVER 

To  the  west  is  Leland  Island,  once  called 
Mill  Rock.  A  strange  character,  Sandy  Gib- 
son by  name,  occupied  this  little  island  tor 
years,  living  in  a    tiny  house,  the  only  inhab- 


Mill  Rock,  Hell  Gate. 

itant  of  the  island.  He  entertained  amateur 
fishermen,  and  lived  a  quiet,  easy  life  in  his 
hermitage.  Mill  Rock  was  the  base  of  oper- 
ations when  the  reefs  and  rocks  of  Hell  Gate 
were  blown  up  to  deepen  the  channel.     Now 

[•4'] 


SOME    ISLANDS    OF  THE   EAST   RIVER 

the  island  is  simply  a  deserted  bit  of  rough, 
black  rock  above  the  waters. 

Straight  ahead  is  Ward's  Island.  Before  it 
is  reached  the  boat  must  pass  between  two 
reefs,  remembered  as  *'  Pot  Rock  "  and  the 
"  Frying  Pan,"  that  were  as  Scylla  and 
Charybdis  to  early  mariners.  These  are  harm- 
less now,  and  more  to  be  feared  are  the  swift 
currents  around  the  Hog's  Back  and  Negro 
Point. 

At  first  glimpse  Ward's  Island  seems  to  be 
the  site  of  Gothic-spired  cathedral  buildings, 
and  gives  no  suggestion  ot  the  time  when  it 
was  one  of  Walter  Van  Twiller's  farms.  For 
this  island,  as  well  as  the  one  now  called 
Randall's  Island,  was  bought  by  Van  Twiller 
when  he  was  Governor  of  New  Netherland, 
for  **  sundry  parcels  of  goods,"  and  used  as  his 
private  farm.  Both  islands  were  given  into 
the  care  of  a  giant  Dane  named  Barent  Blom, 
and  after  a  time  came  to  be   known   as  Great 

[142] 


SOME    ISLANDS    OF  THE   EAST   RIVER 


and  Little  Barent  islands.  These  names  were 
afterward  contracted  to  Great  and  Little  Barn. 
In  Van  Twiller's  day.  Ward's  Island  was  cov- 
ered with  dense 
woodlands. 
Though  not  so 
dense,  the 
woods  are  there 
yet,  and  if  seen 
from  the  west- 
ern side  the  isl- 
and shows  a 
solid  patch  of 
green,  the  red 
brick  buildings 
of  the  city  in- 
stitutions ap- 
pearing above  Hell  Gate, 
the  trees.  The  eastern  side,  that,  during  the 
Revolution,  was  the  camping  -  ground  for 
5,000    English    and   Hessian    troops,  is   farm- 

['43] 


SOME    ISLANDS   OF  THE   EAST   RIVER 

ing  land.  At  the  end  which  overlooks  Hell 
Gate,  the  sweeps  of  pasture  land  cover  pauper 
graves.  There  is  no  evidence  now,  at  the 
northern  end  of  the  island,  of  a  cotton  mill 
300  feet  long  that  was  built  there  in  1812, 
and  which  endured  for  years  after  the  enter- 
prise failed  ;  or  of  a  wooden  bridge  which 
extended  from  the  island  to  the  foot  of  i  14th 
street,  and  that  was  built  when  the  mill  was 
set  up. 

Beyond  Ward's  Island,  and  past  Little  Hell 
Gate,  is  Little  Barent,  now  Randall's,  Island. 
Looking  at  this  island  over  the  tiny  marsh 
dignified  by  the  name  of  the  Sunken  Meadow, 
one  can  see  the  dense  woods  of  the  northern 
part,  and  the  rugged  outlines  against  the  sky 
of  the  buildings  of  the  House  of  Refuge. 
Since  Van  Twiller's  day  this  island  has  been 
known  as  Belle  Isle  and  Montressor's  Island. 
The  present  name,  Randall,  is  derived  from 
the    last    private    owner,    Jonathan    Randel  ; 

[144] 


SOME    ISLANDS   OF  THE   EAST   RIVER 

though  just  how  the  difference  in  spelling 
came  about,  history  does  not  tell.  In  1835 
it  came  into  possession  of  the  city.  This  is 
the  only  island  of  the  East  River  on  which  a 
battle  of  the  Revolution  was  fought.  It  was 
little  more  than  a  skirmish,  and  occurred  one 
dark  night  in  September,  1776,  when  an 
American  company  of  250  men  attempted  to 
surprise  a  British  post,  but  were  themselves 
surprised,  and  being  far  outnumbered,  were 
defeated. 

Beyond  Randall's  Island,  and  opposite  141st 
Street  on  the  mainland,  there  is  a  bit  of  land 
so  small  and  so  covered  with  brightly  painted 
houses  that  it  looks  like  a  splash  of  blood 
upon  the  waters.  A  touch  of  contrasting 
color  is  the  Government  lighthouse  at  the 
southern  edge.  This  is  North  Brother  Island, 
and  the  buildings  are  various  departments  of 
the  City  Hospital  for  contagious  diseases. 
Scarcely  a  stone's  throw  away  is  South  Brother 

h45J 


SOME    ISLANDS   OF  THE   EAST    RIYER 

Island,  a  desolate  spot,  uninhabited,  with  four 
trees  sticking  out  of  the  sand  for  sole  vegeta- 
tion. Beyond  these  trees  can  be  had  a  glimpse 
of  a  low  yellow,  straggly  streak  of  sand  in  the 
distance,  bleak  but  picturesque.  The  pict- 
uresqueness  is  forgotten  on  discovering  that 
this  is  Riker's  Island,  the  natural  formation  of 
which  has  been  eked  out  by  garbage  and  ashes 
from  the  city.  There  is  an  old  story  that  the 
famous  pirate,  Captain  Kidd,  buried  part  of 
his  ill-gotten  gains  there,  and  that  years  ago 
people,  went  there  from  time  to  time  to  dig 
for  it.  As  no  one  has  ever  found  any  part  of 
the  treasure,  the  tale  has  grown  into  a  tradi- 
tion that  has  never  been  generally  credited. 

Close  to  these  islands,  between  South 
Brother  and  the  mainland,  the  British  frigate 
Huzzar  sank  in  1780.  For  more  than  100 
years  it  was  believed  that  this  boat  had  car- 
ried ^1,000,000  of  British  gold.  Many 
attempts  were  made  to  recover  this  treasure. 

[146] 


SOME    ISLANDS   OF  THE   EAST    RIVER 

The  first  was  by  a  company  organized  in  1823 
for  the  purpose.  Success  appeared  so  certain 
that  cloth  bags  were  made  in  which  the  treas- 
ure was  to  be  packed.  The  hulk  of  the 
rotting  ship  was  found,  relics  in  the  shape  of 
British  coins,  bits  of  soldiers'  trappings  and 
sailors'  chests  were  brought  up,  but  that  was 
all.  Other  search  was  made  from  time  to 
time,  but  with  no  greater  success.  It  was  not 
until  1894  that  a  New  York  lawyer,  search- 
ing the  records  of  the  Admiralty  and  other 
British  offices,  found  proof  that  there  had 
been  no  treasure  on  board  the  ill-fated  boat. 

So,  after  the  lapse  of  a  century  or  more,  it 
was  shown  that  the  $200,000  which  had  been 
spent  by  the  various  searching  parties,  was  the 
only  real  treasure  ever  connected  with  the 
sinking  of  the  Huzzar. 


[>47] 


OLD-TIME   THEATRES 


— I  /^r^:^ SZ  '- 


OLD-TIME  THEATRES 

SOMETHING  more  than  sixty  years  ago 
the  attention  of  theatre-goers  was  di- 
rected to  a  young  actor  who  appeared 
at  intervals  in  the  Chatham  Theatre.  He 
was  J.  Hudson  Kirby.  His  acting  had  not 
much  merit,  but  he  persisted  in  a  theory  that 
made  him  famous.  It  was  his  idea  that  an 
actor  should  reserve  all  his  strength  for  scenes 
of  carnage  and  death.  The  earlier  acts  of  a 
play  he  passed  through  carelessly,  but  when 
he  came  to  death-scenes  he  threw  himself 
into  them  with  such  force  and  fury  that  they 
came  to  be  the  talk  of  the  town.  Some  of 
the  spectators  found  the  earlier  acts  so  dull 
and  tiresome  that  they  went  to  sleep,  taking 
the  precaution,  however,  to  nudge  their 
neighbor,  with   the  request  to  wake   them  up 

[■5'] 


OLD-TIME    THEATRES 

for    the    death-scene.       And    for    long    years 
after   Kirby's  time,  the   catch-phrase  appHed 


Chatham  Street,  near  where    "  Kirh\-  used  to  die." 

to    any   supreme    effort    was    **Wake  me   up 
when  Kirby  dies." 

The  recollection  of  Kirby,  the  actor,  led 
me  one  day  on  a  search  for  the  Chatham 
Theatre,  which  had  been  the  home  of  his 
triumphs.  It  had  stood  on  the  east  side  of 
Chatham  Street,  between  James  and  Roose- 
velt. But  I  found  no  trace  of  it.  Even  the 
name  of  the  thoroughfare  had  been  changed, 

[■52] 


OLD-TIME    THEATRES 

and  is  now  called  Park  Row.  There  I 
found  a  line  of  small  eating-houses  and  shops 
so  dismal  and  so  time-worn  as  to  look  as 
though  they  had  surely  been  there  before 
Kirby's  day.  But  there  was  no  sign  of  the 
Chatham  Theatre.  And  then  I  remembered 
that  it  had  only  held  its  name  for  a  short 
time  after  it  was  opened,  in  1839,  and  was 
then  renamed  Purdy's  National.  It  was  at 
this  house  that  "Uncle  Tom's  Cabin"  was 
first  produced  in  the  city,  in  1852,  when  it 
ran  for  more  than  a  hundred  nights — a  most 
unusual  record  in  those  days. 

My  effort  to  locate  the  theatrical  home  of 
Kirby  started  me  off  on  a  trip,  which  kept 
me  going  the  greater  part  of  several  days, 
looking  up  spots  where  the  theatres  of  the 
past  had  been. 

Passing  along  Chambers  Street,  I  came 
upon  a  building  beside  the  new  Hall  of  Rec- 
ords, and   stopped,  for  it    recalled    to   me  the 

[>53J 


OLD-TIME    THEATRES 

story  of  an  unfullilled  ambition.  More  than 
half  a  century  has  passed  and  gone  since  Fer- 
dinand Palmo  was  the  proprietor  of  the  Cafe 


Niblo's   Garden. 

des  Milles  Colonnes  in  Broadway  at  Duane 
Street.  His  was  a  prosperous  business,  and 
he  accumulated  wealth  year  by  year.  But  he 
had  a  soul  above  his  trade  and  an  ambition  to 
establish    the  music  of   Italy  in   a    permanent 

[>54] 


OLD-TIME    THEATRES 

home.  So  he  gave  up  his  prosperous  cafe 
and  built  a  pretty  Httle  theatre  at  this  point 
in  Chambers  Street,  where  Stoppani's  baths 
had  been. 

The  theatre  was  opened  in  the  early  part 
of  I  844,  with  Bellini's  opera  **  I  Puritani," 
interpreted  by  Signora  Borghese  and  other 
singers  who  had  been  brought  from  Italy. 
Although  the  house  was  only  moderately  pat- 
ronized at  hrst,  and  although  Palmo  mort- 
gaged all  his  holdings  to  satisfy  his  great 
singers,  who  were  a  capricious  set,  after  a 
few  months  it  looked  as  though  the  venture 
might  struggle  to  success.  But  Palmo,  in  his 
efforts  to  deal  with  the  premiers,  had  forgot- 
ten the  chorus-singers  and  workmen,  and  they 
began  to  grumble. 

Then,  on  a  gala  night,  when  the  house 
was  thronged,  the  musicians,  who  had  not 
been  paid,  suddenly  packed  up  their  instru- 
ments, leaving   the  Signora   Borghese  on   the 

[■551 


OLD-TIME    THEATRES 

stage  at  the  climax  of  one  of  her  grand 
scenes.  That  was  the  end  of  Pahiio  and  his 
opera-house.  Creditors  swooped  down  upon 
him  and  he  became  a  bankrupt.      The  house 


Italian  Opera  House,  later  the  National  Theatre,  Leonard  Street, 

1833- 

was  used  by  several  managers  after  that,  until 
in  1848  W.  E.  Burton  opened  it  as  Burton's 
Chambers  Street  Theatre,  and  it  grew  to  be 
a  successful  and  a  famous  house.  Palmo 
watched  the  fortunes  of  the  house  that  had 


OLD-TIME   THEATRES 

been  his  ruin.  He  supported  himself  first  as 
a  cook,  then  as  a  bartender,  and  died  in  pov- 
erty, his  friends  said  oi^  a  broken  heart. 

The  ambition  of  Pahiio  to  estabhsh  a  per- 
manent home  for  ItaHan  opera  reminded  me 
of  still  another  attempt.  His  was  the  second 
venture;  the  first  had  been  quite  as  disas- 
trous. It  had  heen  made  in  the  Italian 
Opera  House,  built  for  the  purpose,  at  the 
southwest  corner  of  Leonard  and  Church 
Streets.  I  went  to  look  for  the  old  opera- 
house,  and  found  a  row  of  commonplace 
business  buildings.  At  the  corner  where  the 
old  theatre  had  been  erected  in  1833,  the 
proprietor  of  a  shop  laughed  heartily  when  I 
asked  him  if  he  had  known  of  it.  He  had 
never  even  heard  of  such  a  building,  and  the 
idea  of  a  theatre  ever  having  been  in  a  local- 
ity so  entirely  given  over  to  business  struck 
him  as  ludicrous.  And  yet  it  had  been  an 
elegant  theatre,  costing  more  than  $100,000. 

[157J 


OLD-TIME   THEATRES 

The  stock  company  struggled  along  for  two 
years,  the  most  notable  appearance  being 
that  of  Julia  Wheatley,  the  first  American 
singer  to  appear  in  Italian  op^ra  in  this 
country. 

The  name  was  changed  to  the  National 
Theatre  in  1836,  and  in  the  next  year  J.  W. 
Wallack  occupied  it  with  a  company  that 
made  it  popular  for  the  first  time.  It  was 
burned  in  1839,  and  immediately  rebuilt,  but 
when  in  1841  it  was  again  destroyed  by  fire 
that  was  the  last  of  it. 

Passing  the  Temple  Court  in  Beekman 
Street,  I  recalled  that  there  had  been  a  theatre 
on  that  site  in  1761,  where  "Hamlet"  was 
played  for  the  first  time  in  America.  This 
had  been  a  theatre  district  in  its  time,  for  just 
around  the  corner,  where  the  lofty  building 
stands  opposite  St.  Paul's  Chapel,  P.  T.  Bar- 
num  had  his  Museum  and  Moral  Lecture 
Room ;    and    half    a    block    farther    along    I 

L'58] 


OLD-TIME   THEATRES 


stood   before  another  giant  sky-scraper  where 
the  first  Park  Theatre  had  been. 

Walking    up    Broadway,    I    turned    off   at 


\\ 


h'^.r 


'^m^ 


i^/-r'-"-'Ji^ 


^  isj'    ,. 


X^-^'t 


Barnum's   Museum. 


Canal  Street  to  go  to  West  Broadway. 
There,  close  by  the  corner,  on  the  west  side 
of  the   way,  I    stood   before    St.    Alphonsus's 


OLD-TIME   THEATRES 

Church,  and  wondered  how  many  of  those 
who  passed  every  day  knew  that  the  finest 
theatre  in   the  America  of  its   day  had   once 


Plan  of  the  First  Park  Theatre,  1796. 

stood  there,  with  a  stage  larger  than  any  in 
England  or  America  at  that  time.  Built  in 
1826  by  General  C.  W.  Sanford,  on  what 
was  Laurens  Street,  it  was  at  first  called  the 
Lafayette  Amphitheatre,  a  name  given  in 
honor   of  General    Lafayette,  who   was   then 

[160] 


OLD-TIME   THEATRES 

making  a  tour  of  the  United  States,  revisiting 
in  his  old  age  the  scenes  where  he  had  been 
such  a  striking  figure  in  the  stirring  days 
of  the  Revokition.  Toward  the  end  of  the 
year  in  which  the  theatre  was  buik,  the  Erie 
Canal  was  opened,  and   in  this  house,  because 


On   the   Bloomingdale    Road. 

it  was  the  largest  in  the  city,  the  grand  cele- 
bration ball  was  held.      Next  year,  when   the 

[■6. J 


OLD-TIME   THEATRES 

house  became  a  regular  play-house,  it  was 
called  the  Lafayette  Theatre,  but  in  four 
years  it  was  burned  and  never  rebuilt. 

When  I  came  to  Madison  Square  and 
looked  at  the  white  front  of  the  Fifth  Av- 
enue Hotel,  my  thoughts  went  back  to  the 
year  1853,  ^hen  the  hippodrome  was  intro- 


Corporal  Thompson's  Madison  Cottage,   1852^  on  the  Site  of  the 
Fifth  Avenue  Hotel. 

duced  in  America.  Broadway  was  the 
Bloomingdale  Road  in  those  days,  and  for 
something  more  than  twenty  years  there  had 
stood  here  close  by  the  road  a  queer  little 
yellow  house  that    looked  to   be  all  roof  and 

•  [16a] 


OLD-TIME   THEATRES 

veranda.  At  first  the  country  home  of  Chris- 
topher Mildeberger,  for  many  a  year  now  it 
had  been  the  Inn  of  Corporal  Thompson. 
In  this  year  that  I  have  mentioned  the  inn 
was  torn  down,  and  on  the  ground,  extend- 
ing 200  or  more  feet  along  the  road,  and 
taking  up  almost  the  entire  block,  Franconi's 
Hippodrome  was  built.  It  had  two  stories 
of  brick,  with  turrets  surmounted  with  carved 
figures  of  classic  design.  The  auditorium 
was  covered  with  a  roof  of  tin,  and  above  the 
arena,  700  feet  in  circumference,  stretched 
a  green  and  white  striped  canvas.  In  this 
enclosure  trapeze  performances  and  spiral 
globe  acts  were  performed  for  the  first  time 
in  America.  There  were  elephants  and 
reindeer,  stag  hunts  and  races  of  every 
sort. 

Although  the  Hippodrome  was  far  out  of 
town,  throngs  of  people  filled  it  at  each  per- 
formance, and   the  younger  generation  espe- 

[■65J 


OLD-TIME    THEx^TRES 

cially  thought  that  the  very  worst  thing  that 
could  be  imagined  happened  in  1856,  when 
the  Hippodrome  was  removed  to  give  place 
to  the  present  Fifth  Avenue  Hotel. 


[166] 


BOUWERIE  VILLAGE  AND  ITS 
GRAVEYARD 


The  Village  Streets  (dotted  lines)  and  the  City  Streets  (black  lines). 

I     St.  Mark's  Cemetery  ;    ^.   St.  Mark's  Church  ;    3.    Governor   Stuyvesant's 
House;  4.   St.  Mark's  Parsonage ;    5.    Stuyvesant's  Pear-Tree. 


BOUWERIE  VILLAGE  AND   ITS 
GRAVEYARD 

THERE  is  a  bare  and  neglected  bit  of 
land  on  the  east  side  of  the  city,  used 
as  a  place  to  store  broken-down  wag- 
ons, worn-out  chairs,  and  such  other  things  as 
no  longer  have  a  use.  It  is  called  "  The  Lot," 
and  a  sad,  dreary,  useless  lot  it  is.  And  yet 
around  that  neglected  spot  hover  memories 
of  bygone  times — of  a  day  when  the  city  was 
very  young,  indeed — memories  of  a  stern, 
kindly  Dutch  governor,  quiet  and  peaceful 
memories  of  a  village  long  blotted  out.  If 
you  should  wish  to  see  The  Lot,  so  as  to 
know  what  it  is,  as  well  as  what  it  has 
been,  there  is  a  most  difficult  task  before 
you. 

The   city    block    which   extends  east  from 

[169] 


BOUWERIE    VILLAGE 

Second  Avenue,  between  Eleventh  and 
Twelfth  Streets,  is  at  this  day  solidly  built 
upon.  Here  and  there  are  survivals  which 
show  quite  plainly  that  the  wealth  and  'fash- 
ion of  the  city  once  rested  there  before  being 
swept  farther  up  the  island  by  the  tide  ot  ad- 
vancing business  interests.  Everywhere  are 
houses,  piled  so  thick  that  they  seem  liter- 
ally to  be  squeezing,  one  another  out  of  ex- 
istence in  an  effort  to  keep  from  encroaching 
on  the  pavements.  Sealed  in  the  very  centre 
of  the  block,  walled  in  by  houses,  with  no 
glimpse  of  it  to  be  had  from  the  highway, 
and  to  be  seen  only  from  rear  windows  and 
roofs  of  houses,  is  The  Lot.  No  one 
seems  to  know  why  it  has  been  left  there 
where  the  space  could  well  be  utilized  for 
the  yards  of  the  houses.  No  one  seems  to 
care.  There  is  certainly  nothing  to  show 
that  this  neglected  spot  was  once  a  graveyard 
filled  with  white  tombstones.      But  that  was 

[170] 


AND    ITS    GRAVEYARD 

before  the  buildings  had  closed  in  upon  it, 
and  is  a  story  that  had  its  beginning  long 
ago. 

When  Peter  Stuyvesant  was  Governor  of 
New  Netherland,  and  lived  in  New  York, 
which  was  then  called  New  Amsterdam,  he 
owned  a  farm  far  from  the  city.  On  his  farm 
he  built  a  country  house,  where  he  could  find 
relief  from  the  cares  of  office.  This  house 
of  his  was  close  by  where  St.  Mark's  Church 
now  stands,  at  Second  Avenue  and  Tenth 
Street.  Those  were  unquiet  times.  The 
Indians  were  not  always  friendly.  The 
workers  on  Stuyvesant's  farm  and  on  the 
farms  thereabout  built  houses  close  by  the 
Governor's  house.  A  blacksmith  soon  set  up 
his  forge  to  do  all  sorts  of  repairs.  A  little 
tavern  was  opened,  and  Stuyvesant  built  a 
church  at  his  own  expense.  Gradually,  in 
this  way,  a  village  grew  into  life,  and  as  it 
was  on   Stuyvesant's  farm  (or  as  it  was  called 

[17'] 


BOUWERIE    VILLAGE 

then,   Stuyvesant's    bouvverie),   the  settlement 
was  called  the  Bouwerie  Village. 

After  the  English  had  captured  the  city  of 
New  Amsterdam  and  changed  its  name  to 
New  York,  and  after  Stuyvesant  had  returned 
from  Holland,  where  he  had  gone  to  explain 
why  the  city  had  been  given  up  without  the 
striking  of  a  blow  or  the  firing  of  a  cannon, 
he  went  to  live  with  his  family  in  the  house 
in  Bouwerie  Village.  From  Holland  he 
brought  many  things ;  among  others  was  a 
twig  of  a  pear-tree,  which  he  planted  in  a 
favorite  spot  on  the  farm.  This  tree  grew 
strong  and  bore  fruit  for  more  than  200  years, 
and  came  to  be  a  living  landmark.  When  it 
was  knocked  over  by  a  careless  truckman,  in 
November,  1867,  there  were  those  who  re- 
membered how  it  had  been  connected  with 
the  city's  history,  and  they  set  up  a  tablet  of 
brass,  to  preserve  its  memory,  on  the  house 
wall  where  Thirteenth   Street  touches  Third 

[172] 


AND    ITS    GRAVEYARD 

Avenue,   close    by   where    the    pear-tree    had 
stood. 

Stuyvesant  lived  for  twenty-seven  years  in 


The  old  Pear  Tree  planted  by  Governor  Stuyvesant,  corner  of 
Third  Avenue  and  Thirteenth  Street. 

[W3j 


BOUWERIE    VILLAGE 

Bouwerie  Village  after  he  ceased  to  be  gov- 
ernor, and  when  he  died  was  buried  in  a 
vault  of  the  church  he  had  built.  And  after 
him,  many  of  his  descendants  were  buried  be- 
side that  little  church.  A  hundred  years 
after  the  old  Governor's  death,  the  church  he 
built  was  tottering  in  decay.  Then  on  its 
site  the  present  St.  Mark's  Church  was 
erected.  The  remains  of  Stuyvesant  were 
not  disturbed,  and  on  the  church's  side  now 
there  is  a  marble  slab,  marred  by  the  suns  of 
many  summers  and  the  storms  of  long  win- 
ters, which  marks  the  final  resting-place  of 
the  last  of  the  Dutch  governors. 

With  the  new  church  there  came  into  ex- 
istence a  new  burying-ground  for  the  village, 
in  the  fields  just  beyond  the  shadow  of  the 
church  to  the  east.  It  is  this  graveyard 
which,  after  the  lapse  of  almost  a  century, 
has  come  to  be  the  neglected  lot  in  the  midst 
of  the  thickly  settled   block.      In   the  course 

[■74] 


AND    ITS    GRAVEYARD 

of  years,  as  the  village  grew,  streets  were  laid 
out  through  it,  and  many  of  these  were 
named  for  the  members  of  Stuyvesant's  fam- 
ily. But  when  the  city  plan  was  arranged  in 
1807,  the   lines  of  the   new   streets  were   laid 


St.  Mark's  Church  in  1799. 

down  without  the  slightest  regard  for  the 
streets  of  Bouwerie  Village.  And  so  it  came 
about  that  when  the  city  grew  up  on  the  lines 
of  the  city  plan,  the  village  was  swallowed  up. 
Only  one  trace  remains — where  Stuyvesant 
Street  touches  St.  Mark's  Church,  and  runs 
so  contrary  to  the  other  thoroughfares  that  it 

h75J 


BOUWERIE    VILLAGE 

looks  to  be  entirely  out  ot  place.  It  is  one 
of  the  oldest  of  the  Bouwerie  Village  lanes, 
and  sentimental  persons  like  to  think  that  it 
has  been  preserved  out  of  respect  to  the  mem- 
ory of  Peter  Stuyvesant,  after  whom  it  was 
named. 

The  new  streets  fell  in  such  a  way  that 
the  little  graveyard  was  left  in  the  centre  of 
a  block.  In  time  houses  were  built,  until 
the  burying-ground  was  walled  up.  But  be- 
fore that  time  came,  burials  in  the  grounds 
had  been  forbidden,  and  the  place  was  left 
uncared  for  and  forgotten. 

And  so  the  time  came  when  those  who 
looked  from  windows  upon  the  crumbling 
stones  speculated  as  to  what  graveyard  that 
had  been  ;  and  when  little  children,  playing 
in  rear  gardens,  looked  through  chinks  in  the 
fences  and  saw  the  neglected  ground  over- 
grown with  rank  weeds,  in  childish  wonder 
they  asked  what  place  that  was.     The  years 

[■76] 


AND    ITS    GRAVEYARD 

passed.  Wealth  and  fashion  gave  way  to 
working-people.  Stately,  roomy  dwellings 
were  replaced  hy  dark  and  narrow  tenements. 
Through  the  changes  the  graveyard  lingered, 
each  year  growing  more  wild  and  forlorn  in 
appearance.  The  tombstones  tottered  with 
age,  until,  finally,  what  remained  ot  them 
was  carted  away.  So  this  resting-place  of 
the  dead  passed  out  of  existence  by  almost 
imperceptible  stages,  and  there  was  left  in  its 
place  The  Lot,  which  gives  no  hint  of  the 
Bouwerie  Village  graveyard. 


[•77] 


THE   BATTERY   AND   THE 
FORT 


"1/  |Mj 

The   Battery,    Old  and   New. 


THE   BATTERY   AND   THE 
FORT 

THE  population  of  the  Island  of  Man- 
hattan in  the  year  1614  consisted  of 
a  few  traders  who  had  been  sent 
here  by  the  Dutch  East  India  Company. 
They  were  to  collect  the  furs  of  animals,  and 
return  with  them  to  Holland.  Besides  the 
traders,  there  were  on  the  island  many  Ind- 
ians. As  a  storehouse  for  furs,  and  as  a  pro- 
tection against  Indians  and  wild  beasts,  the 
traders  built  a  wooden  house  just  to  the 
south  of  where  Bowling  Green  Park  is 
now.      They  called  it  "  Fort  Manhattan." 

Very  soon  the  Dutch  West  India  Company 
came  into  existence.  Then  it  was  deter- 
mined that  New  Amsterdam  was  to  be  a  city 
instead  of  a  trading-station.      A  new  fort  was 

[18, J 


THE    BATTERY    AND    THE    FORT 

built  on  the  site  of  the  earlier  one,  and  was 
called  *'  Fort  Amsterdam."  This  was  in  the 
year  1626,  when  Peter  Minuit  governed. 
The  second  fort  had  walls  of  earth  ten  feet 
high,  which  enclosed  several  houses  that  were 
built  of  plank,  rough  hewn  from  trees: 
There  was  a  house  of  medium  size  for  the 
Governor,  and  houses  of  smaller  size  for  the 
other  officers,  and  an  open  space  which  the 
colonists  might  occupy  in  case  of  an  Indian 
outbreak.  This  open  space  was  not  large, 
for  there  were  not  many  persons  in  the  col- 
ony, which  occupied  not  nearly  so  much  land 
as  the  present  Battery  Park. 

When  Van  Twiller  arrived  as  Governor,  in 
1633,  he  built  for  himself,  inside  the  fort, 
what  was  then  called  the  *'  Big  House  " — a 
building  of  brick  and  quite  substantial.  For 
a  company  of  soldiers  he  had  brought  with 
him  he  set  up  a  guard-house,  and  close  by  it, 
at  the  southern  end  of  the  fort  wall,  a  wind- 

[182] 


THE    BATTERY   AND    THE    FORT 

mill  to  grind  grain.  Soon,  too,  he  had  the 
northwest  bastion  faced  with  stone,  tor  the 
wall  was  already  showing  signs  of  weakness. 
But  this  little  stone  trimming  did  not  prevent 
the  fort  from  falling  into  decay,  and  the  goats 
and  other  domestic  animals  that  ran  loose  in 
the  settlement  rooted  their  way  along  the 
walls,  so  that  by  the  time  Governor  Kieft 
came,  in  1638,  there  were  open  spaces  in  the 
earthworks  on  every  side.  The  new  Gov- 
ernor partially  repaired  the  walls,  but  they 
were  in  no  perfect  state  when  an  Indian  war 
broke  out  in  1641,  and  settlers  from  the  farms 
hurried  to  the  protection  of  the  little  village 
of  New  Amsterdam.  Some  of  them  built 
houses  outside  the  walls,  close  to  the  fort ; 
and  these  houses,  at  a  later  time,  caused  no 
end  of  trouble.  The  year  after  this  a  fine 
stone  church  was  built  in  the  fort,  the  build- 
ing previously  used  having  been  a  rude  struct- 
ure close  by  the  water-side. 

[-83] 


THE    BATTERY   AND    THE    FORT 

At  this  time  the  colonists  asked  the  West 
India  Company  to  replace  the  earthworks  of 
the  fort  by  walls  of  stone.  But  the  company 
objected  to  the  expense,  and  suggested  that  if 


Interior  of  Fort,  from  Bowling  Green,  showing  Governor's  House 
and  Church. 

the  colonists  wanted  a  wall  very  much  they 
might  build  it.  But  the  colonists  refused  to 
give  their  time  and  their  money  for  doing 
what  the  company  should  have  done.      So  it 

[184J  -  . 


THE    BATTERY    AND    THE    FORT 

was  not  until  some  years  later — about  1658, 
when  Peter  Stuyvesant  had  become  Governor 
— that  stone  in  great  part  took  the  place  of 
the  earthwork.  The  work  was  done  by  ne- 
gro slaves,  who  were  in  the  employ  of  the 
company.  Even  this  stone  wall  did  not  give 
much  security,  for  the  English  captured  the 
city  in  1664,  and  occupied  the  fort  without 
the  striking  of  a  blow.  And  Governor  Stuy- 
vesant explained  to  the  Dutch  West  India 
Company  that  the  English  had  been  vastly 
superior  in  numbers,  and  that  he  had  not  at- 
tempted to  hold  the  fort,  because  it  was  not 
strong  enough  to  resist  the  slightest  shock. 
Among  other  things,  Stuyvesant  explained 
that  the  houses  outside  the  fort  were  so  close 
to  the  wall  that  anyone  climbing  on  them 
could  step  directly  into  the  enclosure. 

In  honor  of  James,  Duke  of  York,  the 
brother  of  Charles  II.,  the  English  rechris- 
tened   the   fort,  calling  it    Fort   James.      The 

1^851 


THE    BATTERY   AND    THE    FORT 

Duke  of  York  had  been  granted  the  territory 
of  New  Netherland  by  his  brother,  the  King, 
and  now,  having  taken  possession,  he  called  it 
New  York.  This  same  Duke  of  York  af- 
terward became  King  James  H.  When  the 
English  saw  how  weak  the  defences  were,  it 
was  proposed  to  build  the  walls  higher  and 
stronger.  But  their  engineer  decided  against 
that,  as  the  ground  to  the  north  and  east  was 
much  higher  than  the  walls  could  be  raised. 
He  suggested  that  the  only  wise  thing  to  do 
was  to  set  up  a  battery  of  guns  under  the 
walls  at  the  water-side.  So  a  battery  was  de- 
cided upon,  although  it  was  not  built  until 
1684.  It  was  from  this  battery  that  the 
point  now  called  "  The  Battery "  got  its 
name,  which  it  retains  years  after  all  signs  of 
a  battery  have  disappeared. 

The  Dutch  recaptured  the  city  in  1673. 
Remembering  how  the  houses  outside  the 
fort  had    been    complained  of.   Captain    An- 

[186J 


THE    BATTERY    AND    THE    FORT 

thony  Colve,  the  new  Dutch  Governor,  had 
them  all  removed,  and  left  an  open  space  out- 
side Fort  William  Hendrick,  as  it  was  now 
called.  It  was  only  to  hold  this  name  for 
a  few  months,  when  it  was  again  called  Fort 
James,  and  the  province  was  restored  to  the 
English  on  the  declaration  of  peace  in  1 674. 
The  English  did  not  keep  the  fort  in  any 
hetter  repair  than  had  the  Dutch,  and  by  the 
year  1689  it  was  in  a  ruinous  condition.  By 
that  time  King  James  H.  had  been  deposed, 
William  and  Mary  had  become  King  and 
Queen  of  England,  and  Jacob  Leisler  had 
assumed  command  of  the  forces  in  New 
York,  and  had  constituted  himself  Governor 
of  the  province.  This  Leisler  had  the  walls 
strengthened  and  the  houses  within  propped 
up.  It  was  at  that  time  called  Fort  William, 
to  suit  the  new  King.  The  battery,  which 
had  been  set  up  only  five  years  before,  was 
already  showing  strong  signs  of  neglect.      So 

[187J 


THE    BATTERY   AND    THE    FORT 

Leisler  had  it  removed,  and  put  up  in  its 
place  a  '*  half-moon  "  fortification  with  seven 
guns.  Leisler  had  scarcely  more  than  com- 
pleted these  improvements  when  he  was 
locked  up  in  the  fort  prison  which  he  had 
just  put  in  good  condition,  and  very  soon 
after  was  hanged  as  a  traitor. 

The  church  which  Kieft  had  built  was  in 
a  bad  way  in  1694,  when  it  was  removed, 
and  a  new  one  built.  The  **  half-moon  " 
battery,  after  four  years  of  existence,  came  to 
be  considered  worthless,  and  it  was  decided 
to  erect  a  '*  great  battery  "  of  fifty  guns,  that 
should  command  both  rivers  and  the  bay. 
The  work  on  this  "  great  battery  "  went 
along  very  slowly — sometimes  not  being 
touched  for  years  at  a  time — and  it  was  not 
completed  until  1735.  Even  then  another 
twenty  years  or  more  passed  before  the  can- 
non were  added. 

The  "  great  battery  "  extended  from  the 
[188] 


THE    BATTERY    AND    THE    FORT 

present  Greenwich  Street  and  Battery  Place 
to  where  Whitehall  Street  touches  Front 
Street,  and  this  formed  the  water-line  at  that 
time.  The  southern  end  of  this  battery  was 
built  on  rocks,  which  were  beyond  the  shore 
when   the  first  battery  was    constructed.      In 


The    Fort  and    Battery   in  1740. 

the  years  between  that  time  and  this,  the  land 
has  been  gradually  filled  in,  forming  the 
present  Battery  Park. 

When  Queen  Anne  ascended  the  throne 
of  England  in  1702,  the  fort  became  Fort 
Anne,  and  with  the  beginning  of  the  reigns 
of    the    Georges    in     1714    it    became    Fort 

[.89] 


THE    BATTERY   AND    THE    FORT 

George,  continuing  so  until  it  was  disman- 
tled. During  the  years  which  followed, 
changes  were  made  from  time  to  time,  some- 
times through  necessity,  as  was  the  case  when 
the  governor's  house  burned  in  1741,  when 
a  new  and  more  elegant  structure  was  built  ; 
this  last  was  burned  in  1773,  and  after  that 
the  fort  ceased  to  be  the  residence  of  the 
officers  of  the  State,  and  was  occupied  by  the 
military  force  alone. 

After  the  Revolution,  about  the  year  1787, 
the  fort  was  regarded  as  useless,  and  was  de- 
molished. The  battery  was  removed  at  about 
the  same  time.  On  the  site  of  the  fort  was 
erected  a  mansion  designed  to  be  used  by  the 
presidents  of  the  United  States.  But  before 
it  was  completed,  in  1791,  the  seat  of  govern- 
ment was  removed  to  Philadelphia.  For  a 
time  it  was  used  for  a  custom-house  before  it 
was  torn  down,  in  i  815.  It  is  upon  the  same 
site  that  the  new  Custom-house  is  being  built. 

[190] 


AROUND  THE  COLLECT  POND 


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AROUND  THE  COLLECT  POND 


BETWEEN     Broadway     and    the    Five 
Points  is  a   most   interesting    locality. 
Visiting  quite   recently   the    dozen   or 
more  streets,  where  once  I   had  been  wont  to 
stop   at   almost   every   step    to   examine    some 
relic,  I   was  sorely  disappointed,   for   I    found 


lilt.-    Ii\(.-    Tcjiiiis,    riitx     ^  car>    .AL't 
[193  I 


AROUND    THE    COLLECT    POND 

that  the  new  city  had  engulfed  the  old.  The 
picturesque  had  given  way  to  the  useful.  I 
walked  on,  fully  believing  that  the  Five 
Points,  at  least,  had  not  been  regenerated. 
But,  turning  the  corner  where  the  old  brew- 
ery had  been,  I  found  a  lofty  mission-house, 
and  neatly  dressed  children  romping  on  the 
sidewalk  in  front  of  it.  The  squalor  and 
misery  and  wretchedness  of  former  times  had 
vanished  with  the  old-time  buildings.  The 
Mulberry  Bend  slum,  where  I  had  often 
stumbled  along  dark  entries  and  up  creaking 
stairs  to  study  criminal  haunts,  where  there 
were  dismal  cellars  and  winding  passages  lead- 
ing to  holes  where  criminals  burrowed  safe 
from  the  hands  of  the  police — for  few  police- 
men were  bold  enough  to  venture  there — 
where  was  that  old  slum  block  ?  Gone  ! 
And  in  its  place  a  park,  whose  well-kept 
lawns  and  paths  gave  no  suggestion  of  the 
plague-spot  of  old. 

[194] 


AROUND    THE    COLLECT    POND 

And  so,  finding  scarcely  a  vestige  of  what 
I  had  set  forth  to  see,  I  retraced  my  way 
and,  being  quite  tired  out  with  the  walk 
and  coming  upon  the  steps  of  the  City  Prison, 
a  calm  and  quiet  spot  on  this  late  afternoon, 
I  sat  down  to  rest.  As  I  sat  there  thinking 
of  the  changes  time  had  wrought,  I  called  to 
mind  what  the  locality  had  been  more  than 
two  centuries  ago,  and  sketched,  in  rough, 
a  diagram  of  the  streets  over  which  I  had 
walked. 

For  more  than  200  years  after  the  first 
Dutch  traders  landed  on  the  Island  of  Man- 
hattan, the  ground  occupied  by  the  streets 
mapped  out  was  a  lake  of  clear  water.  It 
was  so  deep  that  in  the  days  when  New  York 
was  called  New  Amsterdam  it  was  supposed 
to  be  bottomless.  To  the  west,  over  in  the 
direction  of  Broadway,  there  was  a  high  hill, 
and  still  farther  to  the  west  a  dismal  swamp. 
All   around  the   lake   were  trees  that  showed, 

I  '95  I 


AROUND    THE    COLLECT    POND 

in  their  great  girth  and  gnarled  branches, 
that  they  had  grown  for  hundreds  and  hun- 
dreds of  years. 

In  this  ideal  and  primitive  spot  on  the 
slope  of  the  western  hill  by  the  edge  of  the 
water  was  an  Indian  village.  On  the  shores 
of  the  East  River  the  men  of  this  little  tribe 
collected  huge  oysters,  which  they  brought 
in  canoes  to  the  village  through  a  little  out- 
let of  the  lake  that  stretched  away  on  the 
line  of  the  present  Roosevelt  Street.  The 
women  of  the  tribe  opened  the  oysters  and 
strung  the  morsels  for  winter  food,  throwing 
the  white  shells  on  the  hillside.  So,  by  the 
time  the  Dutch  traders  came,  the  hill  looked 
like  a  shining  mountain  of  shells.  Then 
these  traders  called  the  hill  Kalch  Hook, 
which  means  Shell  Point,  and  gave  the  name 
Kalch  to  the  lake,  as  well  as  to  the  hill.  In 
time  this  Kalch  was  corrupted  to  Collect,  and 
so   came  the   name   Collect   Lake   or   Collect 

[,96J 


AROUND    THE    COLLECT    FOND 

Pond.  Still  later  on,  because  of  its  being 
clear  and  fresh,  it  was  called  the  Fresh-Water 
Pond,  and  the  outlet  to  the  East  River  came 
to  be  called  the  Fresh  Water,  and  was  used 
to  designate  the  boundary  of  the  town  long, 
long  before  there  was  a  thought  that  the 
town  would  ever  reach  so  distant  a  point. 
Still  later  it  was  called  the  Old  Wreck  Brook, 
from  the  fact  of  a  wreck  lying  in  the  river 
near  its  outlet. 

Now  there  were  fish  of  very  many  varie- 
ties in  this  Collect  Lake,  and  the  Dutch 
burghers  of  New  Amsterdam  often  journeyed 
from  their  town  far  out  here  into  the  country 
and  fished  all  the  day, long.  And  when  the 
town  became  New  York,  the  Collect  con- 
tinued to  be  a  grand  fishing-ground  until  a 
third  of  the  eighteenth  century  had  gone  by, 
when  the  fishermen,  becoming  more  pro- 
gressive, began  to  use  nets  and  all  sorts  of 
contrivances   to  snare   the   fish  in   large   num- 

[197]      . 


AROUND    THE    COLLECT    POND 

bers.  Then  the  officials  of  the  town  inter- 
fered and  passed  an  ordinance  which  was  to 
preserve  the  sport.      This  ordinance  read : 

"  It  is  ordained  that  if  any  person  hereafter  pre- 
sume to  put,  place,  or  cast  into  the  pond,  com- 
monly called  Fresh-Water  Pond,  belonging  to  this 
corporation,  any  hoop-net,  draw-net,  purse-net, 
casting-net,  cod-net,  bley-net,  or  any  other  net  or 
nets  whatsoever,  and  shall  take  and  catch  any  of 
the  fish  within  the  said  pond  therein,  or  by  any 
other  engine,  machine,  arts,  ways,  or  means  whatso- 
ever, other  than  by  angling  with  angle-rod,  hook 
and  line  only,  he  shall  pay  a  fine  of  forty  shillings." 

So  that  put  an  end  to  any  newfangled  and 
wholesale  way  of  catching  fish  in  the  Collect 
Pond. 

The  swamp  mentioned  as  being  to  the 
west  of  the  Collect  stretched  away  to  the 
Hudson  River.  It  was  a  miry  morass,  perme- 
ated with  the  waters  of  the  Collect,  covered 
with  a  thick  growth  of  brush  and  such  vege- 

[198] 


AROUND    THK    COLLKCT    POND 

tation  as  is  usual  in  wet  and  marshy  soil.  It 
was  a  patch  of  ground  useless  and  dangerous 
alike  to  man  and  beast. 

There  was  a  certain  Anthony  Rutgers, 
who  held  a  lease  on  the  greater  part  of  this 
swamp,  and  about  1730  he  suggested  that  he 
could  make  this  land  profitable  if  he  were 
permitted  to  irrigate  it  according  to  his  ideas. 
This  was  considered  a  wild  scheme,  but  the 
city  officials  agreed  to  give  him  the  tract  if 
he  could  restore  it  to  good  ground.  So  he 
had  a  ditch  cut  from  the  Collect  Pond  to  the 
Hudson  River,  drained  the  swamp,  made  it 
firm  land  (it  is  now  crowded  with  great 
business  buildings),  and  this  ditch,  being 
widened,  after  a  while  became  a  canal, 
and  so  gave  a  name  to  the  present  Canal 
Street. 

Quite  close  to  the  swamp  in  Rutgers's  time 
lived  Leonard  Lispenard.  He  married  An- 
thony   Rutgers's  daughter,  and   the  improved 

[20,] 


AROUND    THE    COLLECT    POND 

swamp,   becoming    his    when    Rutgers    died, 
was  then  called  Lispenard's  Meadow. 

But  the  cutting  of  the  drain  did  more  than 
redeem  the  swamp.  It  caused  the  water  to 
flow  to  the  Hudson  River,  and  so  lowered 
the  surface  of  the  Collect  Pond.  Then  the 
natural  outlet  of  the  pond  through  the  Old 
Wreck  Brook  dried  up,  and  there  was  no 
longer  a  water-way  from  the  pond  to  the 
East  River. 

It  was  nearing  the  close  of  the  eighteenth 
century  when  the  city,  creeping  northward 
by  natural  stages,  approached  the  Collect, 
and  people  wondered  what  was  to  become  of 
their  pond.  There  were  some  who  thought 
that  it  should  be  preserved  and  a  park  laid 
out  about  it,  for  the  townspeople  still  were 
much  attached  to  their  inland  lake.  In  the 
summer  of  1796  John  Fitch  built  a  steam- 
boat on  the  shores  of  the  pond,  and  when 
it   was  finished  launched   it,   and    the    people 

[aoi] 


AROUND    THE    COLLECT    POND 

gathered  and  watched  it  steam  around.  That 
was  eleven  years  before  Fulton's  Hrst  boat 
steamed  up  the  Hudson  River. 

While  plans,  which  came  to  nothing,  were 
being  constantly  proposed,  the  city  grew 
nearer  and  nearer  the  Collect  Pond.  The 
Kalch  Hook  was  cut  away,  and  part  of  it 
dumped  into  the  Collect.  Little  by  little 
the  trees  upon  the  shores  were  cut  down  and 
tossed  into  the  water.  The  streets  crept  on 
until  they  reached  the  pond,  which  was 
gradually  lilled  in  until,  by  the  year  1810,  it 
had  disappeared.  Streets  passed  over  where 
it  had  been,  and  even  the  canal  leading  from 
it  vanished. 

Building  after  building  arose  until,  in  the 
year  1838,  a  grim  and  massive  structure  of 
stone,  designed  in  perfect  Egyptian  style, 
called  *'  The  Tombs,"  because  it  was  a  tomb 
in  appearance  and  in  very  truth  a  tomb  for 
wrongdoers,  rose    over    the    spot   where    the 


AROUND    THE    COLLECT    POND 

pleasant  Collect  Pond  had  been.  And  there 
it  stood  until  it,  too,  in  time,  was  swept 
away,  and  the  new  City  Prison  took  its  place, 
the  relentle'ss  spirit  of  improvement  no  more 
respecting  that  unique  bit  of  architecture 
than  it  had  spared  the  beautiful  Collect  Pond 
of  old. 


[204] 


THE    PLEASANT    DAYS    OF 
CHERRY    HILL 


^y^ky 


*)«£.     I1.£A5ANT      O^AV* 


r    4^Ay« 


Hiu^ 


THE    PLEASANT    DAYS    OF 
CHERRY    HILL 

THERE  is  not  a  week  that  passes  but 
someone  who  is  interested  in  days 
gone  by  asks  leave  to  accompany  me 
on  my  rambles  through  the  city.  It  is  not 
always  that  I  grant  these  requests,  for  I  have 
such  a  habit  of  conjuring  up  the  old  where 
there  is  nothing  but  the  new  ;  of  seeing  in 
imagination  low-roofed  Dutch  houses  where 
in  reality  are  the  brobdingnagian  structures 
of  modern  business,  that  unless  I  am  certain 
of  my  companion  I  am  timid  lest  he  think 
me  bereft  of  all  sense.  I  was  quite  sure  of 
my  last  friend,  though,  who  had  asked  that 
I  tell  him  something  of  Cherry  Hill. 

"  If  there   is    anything    to    tell,"     he    had 
hastened    to   add,   *'  for   I    must   confess    that, 

l>07j 


PLEASANT    DAYS   OF    CHERRY    HILL 

though  its  name  has  an  interesting  sound,  I 
cannot  imagine,  from  its  appearance,  that  it 
has  a  history  worth  listening  to." 

It  did  not  surprise  me  to  hear  this,  for  the 
present  Cherry  Hill  district  is  not  picturesque. 
Here  are  the  houses  where  dwelt  wealth  and 
fashion  when  the  city  was  younger,  but  in 
their  old  age  they  shelter  poverty  in  its  ex- 
tremest  form,  and  show  in  every  brick  the 
silent  dilapidation  of  time,  and  in  every  bit 
of  woodwork  the  vandalism  of  neglect  and 
wilful  destruction.  This  district,  fallen  from 
a  high  estate  to  one  of  begrimed  disorder, 
is  but  an  unwholesome  fruit  to  be  the  prod- 
uct of  so  pleasant  a  beginning.  But  though 
not  a  cheerful  quarter,  it  has  a  reward  for 
the  antiquarian  stroller.  And  so  I  told  my 
questioner  that  on  some  bright  afternoon  I 
would  walk  with  him  up  Cherry  Hill,  tell 
its  story,  in  so  far  as  I  was  able,  and  let  him 
judge   for  himself  whether   it  was  worth   the 

[208] 


PLEASANT    DAYS    OF    CHERRY    HILL 

telling  and  worth  the  knowing.      On  such  an 
afternoon  we  started  out,  and   I  told  him,  as 


Washington's    House. 
(From  a  picture  made  in  1856.) 

we  went  along,  the  story  of  the  beginning  of 
Cherry  Hill. 

When  the  seventeenth  century  was  grow- 
ing old,  in  the  time  when  the  town  ot  New 
York  was  just  beginning  to  spread  beyond 
the  clumsy  wall  whose  only  use  had  been  to 
retard     the   growth   of   the   town    tt)ward   the 

[209  I 


PLEASANT    DAYS    OF    CHERRY    HILL 

north,  an  Englishman,  one  Richard  Sacket, 
set  up  as  a  maltster  by  the  East  River  shore. 
He  built  a  large  house,  and  on  the  grounds 
about  it,  which  extended  for  more  than  400 
feet  along  the  river,  he  set  out  row  upon  row 
of  cherry-trees.  It  was  one  of  the  earliest 
cherry  plantations  in  this  country,  and  for  a 
time  there  was  strong  question  whether 
these  trees  would  thrive.  But  they  did,  and 
when  the  strangeness  of  their  appearance 
drew  so  many  sightseers,  Sacket  gave  up  his 
business  and  turned  his  house  and  orchard 
into  a  place  of  entertainment.  He  called  it 
the  Cherry  Gardens.  There  were  tables  un- 
der the  trees  ;  there  was  a  bowling  green  ; 
and  there  was  a  summer-house  for  dancing. 
All  of  which  the  people  of  the  town  took 
most  kindly  to  and  enjoyed  to  the  height  ot 
their  bent,  for  a  score  of  years,  when  the 
garden  was  sold  to  provide  building-places  for 
the  rapidly  growing  town. 

[aio] 


PLEASANT    DAYS    OF    CHERRY    HILL 

By  the  time  this  much  ot  the  story  had 
been  told  we  were  come  to  Franklin  Square, 
which  is  at  the  top  of  Cherry  Hill.  We 
stood  for  a  time  to  examine  the  tablet,  set  in 
a  wall  here  at  the  hill-top,  which  gives  notice 
to  all  passers-by  that  here,  when  he  was  Presi- 
dent, George  Washington  lived.  The  cherry- 
trees  were  gone  in  Washington's  time,  and 
houses,  each  with  a  bit  of  the  old  cherry 
orchard  as  garden  of  its  own,  had  taken  their 
place.  The  road  along  the  hill  was  Queen 
Street,  the  main  highway  from  the  city,  and 
little  Cherry  Street  branched  out  from  it  and 
went  down  the  hillside  just  as  it  does  now, 
just  as  it  did  when  it  was  a  lane  that  ran  be- 
side Richard  Sacket's  garden. 

This  first  Presidential  mansion  of  which 
the  tablet  tells  was  built  by  Walter  Franklin, 
a  merchant  of  the  city.  It  was  three  stories, 
of  brick,  with  small-paned  windows ;  its 
main   entrance   led   to   by  half  a   dozen   stairs 

[•213] 


PLEASANT    DAYS    OF    CHERRY    HILL 

on  either  side  of  a  small  porch  ;  its  doorway 
fitted  with  a  heavy  knocker  of  brass. 

By  no  means  the  least  important  personage 
of  the  President's  household  when  he  lived 
here  was  Sam  Fraunces,  the  steward,  the 
same  **  Black  Sam"  who  had  been  host  of 
the  Queen's  Head  Tavern  in  Broad  Street. 
One  day,  soon  after  Washington  came  to  live 
in  the  Franklin  House,  Fraunces  placed  upon 
his  table  the  first  shad  of  the  season.  The 
President  was  a  lover  of  goo^i  fish,  but  he 
stared  at  this  one  in  dismay.  Then  he  asked 
"  Black  Sam  "  what  had  been  its  cost. 

"Three  dollars,  sir." 

"  Take  it  away,  sir,"  said  Washington, 
sternly.  "  Let  it  never  be  said  that  my  table 
has  set  such  an  example  of  extravagance  and 
luxury." 

In  after  years  the  Franklin  House  became 
a  bank,  and  in  its  old  age  a  tenement,  and 
was  so  still  when  it  was  torn  down  in  1856. 

[214] 


PLEASANT    DAYS    OF    CHERRY    HILL 

The  only  relic  of  it  now  is  a  chair  made 
from  the  wood  of  the  old  house,  to  be  seen 
in  the  rooms  of  the  Historical  Society. 

Older  by  eighteen  years  was  another  struct- 


The  Old  Walton  House. 

ure  of  line  proportions,  which  stood  close  by 
in  Queen  Street,  where  the  house  numbered 
326  Pearl  Street  is  now.  In  the -lays  before 
the  Revolution  the  fame  oi  this  house  ex- 
tended   through    the    country    and    spread    to 


PLEASANT    DAYS    OF    CHERRY    HILL 

England.  It  was  built  by  William  Walton, 
one  of  the  wealthy  merchants  of  the  city. 
Just  before  the  War  of  the  Revolution,  when 
the  people  of  the  colonies  sent  a  petition  of 
grievances  to  Parliament,  there  was  one  mem- 
ber who  said  that  cause  for  such  complaints 
existed  only  in  the  imagination,  and  that  in 
the  Walton  House  he  had  seen  a  display  of 
plate  and  a  style  of  life  that  would  have  well 
suited  an  English  nobleman.  This  might 
well  have  been,  for  the  main  rooms  were  fur- 
nished with  silk  damask  and  green  worsted 
curtains,  mahogany  card-tables  and  dining- 
tables,  and  chairs  with  damask  seats ;  walnut 
gilt-framed  looking-glasses  and  a  large  num- 
ber of  framed  prints.  Although  the  house 
had  been  a  tenement  for  years,  it  still  showed 
signs  of  its  former  grandeur  when,  in  1881, 
it  was  torn  down. 

As  the  years  rolled   by   and   the   city   of  a 
new    century    swept    on.    Cherry    Hill    was 

[0,6] 


ill    ii^F    ^ii£ 


FFf 


No.  7  Cherry  Street  in    1825.      The   First   House   in   New  York 
Lighted  by  Gas. 


PLEASANT    DAYS    OF    CHERRY    HILL 

honored  once  more,  this  time  in  having  one 
of  its  houses,  No.  7,  not  more  than  a  dozen 
steps  from  where  the  FrankUn  House  stood, 
the  first  to  he  Hghted  by  gas  in  the  city. 
This  was  in  the  year  1825.  There  was 
great  fear  of  gas  in  those  days,  and  the 
people  fek  while  the  pipes  were  being 
put  down  in  the  streets,  that  the  city  would 
be  blown  up.  So  the  president  of  the 
company,  to  prove  there  was  no  cause  for 
fear,  had  the  pipes  led  into  his  house  first, 
and  here  the  people  came  from  every  part 
of  the  town  and  from  neighboring  towns  as 
well,  until  they  quite  blocked  up  the  street, 
to  see  the  wonderful  powers  of  the  new  light. 
But  I  came  near  forgetting  that  once  again 
had  Cherry  Hill  been  **  first  "  before  all 
others,  and  that  there,  just  down  the  Hill,  at 
No.  27,  the  first  American  flag  of  the  present 
style  was  made.  In  the  spring  of  181  8  atten- 
tion was  directed  to  the   fact  that  the  flag  of 

[219] 


PLEASANT    DAYS    OF    CHERRY    HILL 

the  United  States  was  growing  unsymmetri- 
cal.  When  the  flag  first  came  into  use,  it 
bore  thirteen  stars  and  thirteen  stripes,  and 
for  each  new  State  it  was  designed  to  add  an- 
other stripe  and  star.  As  the  stripes  were 
added,  they  were  gradually  narrowed  to  ad- 
mit them  all  to  the  regulated  space,  and  so 
the  flag  was  losing  the  proportions  of  its  early 
beauty.  In  this  year,  1818,  Captain  Samuel 
C.  Reid,  the  hero  of  Fayal,  suggested  a 
change  which  should  link  the  past  with  all 
time.  He  would  retain  the  thirteen  stripes 
to  typify  the  beginning  of  the  Union,  while 
in  the  field  of  blue  he  would  add  a  white  star 
for  each  new  State.  His  design  was  ac- 
cepted, and  Mrs.  Reid  made  the  first  flag  of 
the  new  design  in  her  dining-room  at  27 
Cherry  Street,  assisted  by  several  of  her 
friends  ;  and  when  the  flag  was  finished  and 
the  names  of  the  makers  embroidered  upon 
its   folds,  it    was   forwarded    to    Washington, 

[220] 


PLEASANT    DAYS    OF    CHERRY    HFLL 

and  soon  boated  over  the  Capitol.  In  ac- 
knowledging it,  Hon.  Peter  H.  Wendover, 
New  York's  Representative,  wrote  to  Captain 
Reid  in   I  8  I  8  : 

"  The  new  flag  arrived  here  per  mail  this 
day,  and  was  hoisted  to  replace  the  old  one 
at  two  o'clock,  and  has  given  much  satisfac- 
tion to  all  who  have  seen  it,  as  far  as  I  have 
heard.  I  am  pleased  with  its  form  and  pro- 
portions, and  have  no  doubt  it  will  satisfy  the 
public  mind," 

Standing  by  this  house  where  the  flag  was 
made,  I  recall  the  story  of  the  building  next 
door,  where  had  lived  the  president  ot  a  com- 
pany organized  to  seek  for  sunken  treasure. 
It  was  a  tale  that  went  far  back  to  the  year 
1780.  The  British  frigate  Huzzar,  passing 
through  the  treacherous  waters  of  Hell  (Jate, 
struck  a  rock,  and,  drifting  off  for  some  dis- 
tance, finally  sank  close  by  South  Brother 
Island.      It   was  thought   at  the  time  that  she 

I  221] 


PLEASANT    DAYS    OF    CHERRY   HILL 

carried  ^'1,000,000  of  British  gold.  In  the 
year  1823  a  company  was  formed  to  seek 
the  gold  and  bring  it  up  from  the  bottom  of 
the  river.  Here  in  this  house  the  company's 
president  lived,  and  so  sure  was  he  that  the 
gold  would  be  recovered  that  he  set  his  house- 
hold to  making  bags  of  cotton  cloth  in  which 
it  was  to  be  stored.  But  they  might  have 
been  spared  the  labor  of  making  treasure- 
bags,  for  divers  could  never  find  a  trace  ot  it. 
My  companion  seemed  satisfied  thus  far 
with  the  story  of  Cherry  Hill,  and  asked  me 
as  a  last  question  whether  Franklin  Square  had 
been  so  called  from  the  Franklin  House,  in 
which  Washington  lived.  In  answer  I  told 
him  that  there  has  long  been  a  contention  as 
to  where  the  name  came  from.  In  Washing- 
ton's time  it  was  St.  George's  Square.  There 
are  those  who  believe  that  its  later  name  was 
in  honor  of  the  merchant,  Walter  Franklin. 
But  the  records  are  so  clear  that  there  should 

[222] 


Pearl  Street,  Near  F"ranklin  Square,  in   1835. 


PLEASANT    DAYS    OF    CHERRY    HILL 

be  no  room  to  doubt  that  this  is  not  the  fact. 
A  resolution  of  the  Board  of  Aldermen,  which 
bears  date  of  March  17,  18 17,  recites  that 
the  change  is  made  "  as  a  testimony  of  the 
high  respect  entertained  by  the  Board  for  the 
literary  and  philosophical  character  of  the  late 
Dr.  Benjamin  Franklin." 

It  is  of  the  bright  days  of  Cherry  Hill 
that  I  have  told.  Since  then  buildings  have 
sprung  up  like  rank  weeds  over  the  green 
lawns.  The  pleasant  locality  has  become  a 
"slum  district."  It  is  even  fast  losing  its 
name,  for  now  it  is  generally  termed  simply 
"The  Hill." 


[22s^ 


SOME    FORGOTTEN    BYWAYS 


^one,    hofK-^oTTai^   fjVsrvA^^ 


SOME    FORGOTTEN    BYWAYS 

ONE  might  look  for  days  over  a  map 
of  the  Island  of  Manhattan  without 
finding  a  record  of  Petticoat  Lane. 
This  is  a  byway  that  extended  through  green 
fields  when  New  York  was  New  Amsterdam. 
Under  its  modern  name  of  Marketfield  Street, 
the  lane  is  a  series  of  houses,  with  one  large 
building  set  squarely  across  it,  concealing  its 
existence  and  marking  it  no  thoroughfare. 

When  the  town  was  young,  a  fort  stood 
close  by  the  little  Bowling  Green  Park,  with 
a  road  leading  past  it  from  the  Hudson  River 
to  a  sluggish  canal  that  has  long  since  been 
buried  deep  beneath  Broad  Street.  This 
road  was  Petticoat  Lane,  and  on  exploring 
the  bit  of  it  which  yet  remains,  it  is  seen  to 
open    into    Broad    Street,    a    few    steps    from 

[229] 


SOME    FORGOTTEN    BYWAYS 

Beaver.  On  either  side  are  high,  irregular 
walls,  which  look  to  be  all  windows  and 
doors.  These  walls  crowd  over  so  far  into 
the  street  that  the  sidewalks  left  are  of  the 
tiniest  sort.  On  one  side  is  a  squat  and  an- 
gular structure,  which  it  needs  but  little  imag- 
ination to  transform  into  a  good  old  Dutch 
tavern, 

Marketiieid  Street  hardly  extends  the  length 
of  a  block  before  it  comes  to  an  abrupt  end 
against  the  wall  of  the  Produce  Exchange. 
In  1688  there  was  a  more  interesting  wall 
within  a  few  steps  of  this  one.  In  that  year 
was  built,  on  the  south  side  of  the  lane,  the 
first  French  Huguenot  church,  and  close  to 
it  was  the  customary  graveyard  of  those  days, 
whose  harvest  of  white  stones  grew  year  by 
year  until  they  and  the  church  and  all  that 
pertained  to  it  were  moved  away  in  1704. 
On  land  that  the  Produce  Exchange  now 
covers   was  the  Hertfordshire   and  Yorkshire 

[230] 


SOME    FORGOTTEN    BYWAYS 

Tavern,  one  of  the  famous  hostelries  of  the 
city,  where  the  men  were  enUsted  who  ac- 
companied Admiral  Warren  on  the  Louis- 
burg  expedition.  When  a  temporary  market 
was  established  on  the  "  Plaine  " — now  Bowl- 
ing Green — about  1740,  the  name  of  the 
lane  was  changed  to  the  *'  Market-field." 

Two  blocks  farther  on,  toward  the  water- 
side, at  the  head  of  what  is  still  called  Coen- 
ties  Slip,  is  another  forgotten  byway.  Where 
the  elevated  railway  turns  into  Pearl  Street 
there  is  a  deep  cut  between  two  houses,  ex- 
tending half  a  hundred  feet  through  the 
block.  It  is  so  insignificant  as  not  to  be  no- 
ticed on  any  modern  map  of  the  city,  yet 
has  existed  for  260  years.  It  was  the  lane 
on  one  side  of  the  first  city  hall — the  Stadt 
Huys — which  was  built  in  1642  by  Governor 
William  Kieft.  It  led  to  a  thoroughfare 
then  called  Hoegh  Street,  but  which  after- 
ward, when  it  was  paved  with  cobblestones — 

[^3 1 J 


SOME    FORGOTTEN    BYWAYS 

the  first  street  to  be  so  treated — became  Stone 
Street,  and  is  so  still.  The  only  reminder  of 
the  Stadt  Huys  is  a  tablet  to  its  memory,  riv- 
eted to  the  wall  of  a  business-house  which 
stands  on  the  site.  Coenties  Slip,  a  small 
arm  of  water,  is  buried  beneath  the  one  green 
spot  in  that  noisy  locality,  and  the  river  has 
been  crowded  away  to  make  room  for  the 
land  that  has  been  added  to  form  two  addi- 
tional streets. 

Stone  Street,  after  it  passed  Coenties  Lane, 
led  straight  to  the  ferry  at  Peck  Slip,  half 
a  mile  farther  on.  A  short  walk  up  this 
winding  way  leads  to  Ellet's  Alley — another 
street  that  has  outlived  its  name.  Extending 
the  length  of  two  ordinary  houses,  it  con- 
nects two  thoroughfares,  but  to  no  purpose  ; 
for  the  same  streets  join  a  few  yards  farther 
on  in  Hanover  Square. 

Some  time  previous  to  1691  the  first  Jew- 
ish  synagogue  had   been   built    on   the  north 

[232] 


SOME    FORGOTTEN    BYWAYS 

side  of  Mill  Street,  almost  facing  Ellet's  Alley. 
But  although  the  maps  of  the  period  give 
this  name,  there  is  no  record  as  to  who  Ellet 
was.  The  synagogue  existed  for  more  than 
1 50  years,  and  this  lane  was  used  as  a  short 
cut  to  it.  The  city  grew  up  around  it  and 
the  locality  was  converted  from  one  of  quaint 
cottages  and  refreshing  gardens  to  a  collec- 
tion of  high  walls  and  hard  pavements  before 
the  synagogue  was  moved  far  uptown.  Mill 
Street  was  cut  through,  Ellet's  Alley  lost  its 
usefulness  and  its  name,  and  now,  in  its  old 
age,  it  has  fallen  into  the  ranks  of  forgotten 
byways. 

After  passing  Hanover  Square,  walk  toward 
the  water-side  past  two  streets,  turn  to  the 
right  into  the  third,  and  midway  of  the  block 
will  be  found  another  of  the  forgotten  city 
lanes.  Cuyler's  Alley  is  100  years  old,  and  it 
might  have  remained  unnoticed  for  a  thou- 
sand years,  had  it  not  been  for  its  connection 


SOME    FORGOTTEN    BYWAYS 

with  a  famous  murder  which  occurred  in  the 
early  part  of  the  nineteenth  century.  Stand- 
ing at  one  end  of  this  alley,  one  can  hear  the 
constant  buzz  from  the  business-houses  pre- 
paring freight  for  foreign  ports.  The  other 
end  of  the  lane  can  be  seen,  and  still  farther 
on  the  picturesque  tangle  of  ships'  masts  and 
rigging.  In  the  midst  of  the  sounds  and 
sights  of  busy  life,  Cuyler's  Alley  is  always 
quiet  and  deserted.  At  night  it  resembles  a 
tunnel,  black  and  desolate. 

Walking  up  Broadway  from  the  Bowling 
Green,  in  the  block  next  to  Trinity  Church- 
yard, one  can  discern,  by  looking  closely,  an 
asphalted  court  between  two  houses.  At  the 
entrance  to  this  court  is  a  narrow  tablet  bear- 
ing the  words  "  Tinpot  Alley."  This  space 
is  all  that  remains  of  a  pretty  green  lane 
which  was  there  in  the  eighteenth  century, 
and  which  has  gradually  changed  in  conform- 
ity with  its  surroundings.      It  has  been  called 

[234] 


SOME    FORGOTTEN    BYWAYS 

Tinpot  Alley  the  greater  part  of  its  existence. 
A  city  official,  in  1886,  wished  to  change  the 
name    to    Exchange    Alley,       Many    citizens 


Broadway  at  Bowling  Green  in  1825. 

objected,  including  Rev.  Morgan  Dix,  rector 
of  Trinity  Church,  and  before  the  Board  of 
Aldermen  pleaded  for  the  memories  that 
hover  about  the  old   lane.      They  were  suc- 

L235] 


SOME    FORGOTTEN    BYWAYS 

cessful,  and  soon  after  the  tablet  was  set  up 
at  the  entrance  of  Tinpot  Alley  by  Dr.  Dix. 
But  the  spirit  of  vandalism  was  strong,  and 
finally  another  city  official,  without  waiting 
for  official  action,  had  the  name  Exchange 
Alley  placed  upon  a  near-by  lamp-post. 

There  is  at  all  times  an  atmosphere  of  quiet 
serenity  about  Thames  Street.  Although  it 
branches  out  from  Broadway  at  a  point 
which  thunders  with  the  roar  of  traffic,  and 
at  the  Broadway  edge  almost  touches  Wall 
Street,  it  is  the  personification  of  all  that  is 
slow  and  easy-going. 

When  Etienne  De  Lancey,  a  Huguenot 
nobleman  and  merchant  prince,  built  a  man- 
sion beside  Trinity  Churchyard  in  1730,  the 
present  Thames  Street  was  the  carriageway. 
It  grew  to  the  dignity  of  a  street  more  than 
a  hundred  years  ago.  Changes  have  occurred, 
and  Thames  Street  has  noted  many  of  them. 
It  saw  the    mansion  silent   and    deserted   after 

[236] 


SOME    FORGOTTEN    BYWAYS 

the  death  of  Etienne  De  Lancey  ;  then  filled 
with  noted  men  when  it  became  the  home 
of  James   De  Lancey,  eldest  son   of  the   Hu- 


The  City  Hotel. 

guenot  noble,  and  Lieutenant-Governor  of  the 
province.  It  saw  the  house  enveloped  in 
mourning  when  the  Lieutenant-Governor  died, 
in  1760;   saw  it   become  a  hotel   occupied  by 

[237I 


SOME    FORGOTTEN    BYWAYS 

soldiers  of  a  new-born  nation,  and  saw  Wash- 
ington attend  the  first  inauguration  ball  there. 
It  saw  the  mansion  of  De  Lancey  crumbling 
to    decay,  carried   away    bit    by    bit,  and   saw 


Old  Park  Theatre,  which  gave  a  name  to  Theatre  Alley. 

rise  in  its  place,  first  a  new  hotel,  then  a  row 
of  shops,  then  a  modern  office-building. 

When  the  city  was  younger  by  a  hundred 
years.  Theatre  Alley   was  a   busy   little   thor- 

[238] 


o 


SOME    FORGOTTEN    BYWAYS 

oughfare  resounding  by  day  and  by  night 
with  the  tread  of  many  feet.  Nowadays  it 
is  a  deserted  byway.  The  first  Park  Theatre, 
built  in  I  796,  faced  that  portion  of  City  Hall 
Park  on  which  the  post  office  now  stands. 
Far  back  in  the  building  was  the  stage,  and 
in  a  wing  beside  it  was  the  green-room,  its 
windows  looking  out  upon  the  narrow  street 
which  began  life  with  the  theatre,  and  took 
name  from  it.  Many  actors  used  the  little 
street,  and  through  it  have  passed  Edmund 
Kean,  Charles  Mathews,  George  Frederick 
Cooke,  and  a  host  of  others,  whose  voices 
once  thrilled  many  hearts,  but  the  memory 
of  whose  lives  is  as  dim  as  are  the  early 
glories   of   Theatre   Alley. 

St.  John's  Lane  is  so  completely  forgotten 
that  in  years  its  name  has  not  even  crept  into 
the  police  records.  The  lane  is  directly  back 
of  St.  John's  Church  in  Varick  Street,  and 
extends     the     length     of    one     block.      The 

[HI] 


SOME    FORGOTTEN    BYWAYS 

church  was  built  in  1807,  on  what  was  then 
the  edge  of  the  city,  and  the  lane  has  been 
there  since  that  time.  Walking  suddenly 
into  it  from  the  noisy  business  district  close  at 
hand,  the  eye  is  delighted  with  the  charming 
picture  it  presents  of  quiet  life,  and  one 
can  hardly  believe  in  the  reality  of  the  pic- 
turesque and  peaceful   scene. 


[242] 


WHERE    SILENCE    REIGNS 


^' 

^ 

'5? 

« 

-tj 

i 

•» 

;o 

m 

1 

n 

1  r 


a         Shco/vd    Ave, 


1  r 


*A/rte/?s  5/c^A/cs  /?^/f/v, 


WHERE    SILENCE    REIGNS 

MANY  a  time  in  walking  through  the 
higiiway  which  is  next  to  the 
Bowery  on  the  east,  a  thorough- 
fare which  attracts  by  reason  of  an  air  of  res- 
idential quiet  hanging  over  it  in  these  days 
of  its  decadence,  I  had  noticed  an  iron  gate- 
way set  in  between  two  houses.  It  is  a  score 
of  steps  or  more  beyond  Second  Street,  and 
my  eyes  often  turned  toward  it  in  wonder- 
ment, attracted  by  the  size  of  its  iron  bars 
and  the  intricacy  of  its  scroll-work.  I  had 
even,  from  time  to  time,  made  mental  calcu- 
lations in  an  effort  to  satisfy  myself  as  to  the 
period  when  the  gate  had  been  new  ;  so  cus- 
tomary has  it  become  for  me  to  reckon  in- 
stinctively on  the  age  of  objects.  But,  for  one 
reason  or  another,  although  of  an   inquisitive 

[245] 


WHERE   SILENCE    REIGNS 

nature,  I  never  made  the  slightest  effort  to 
learn  whether  or  not  that  gate  had  a  history. 
For  all  that,  it  made  an  impression  on  my 
mind,  and  one  afternoon,  although  I  had  not 
been  in  the  street  where  it  is  for  close  upon 
a  year,  the  idea  came  upon  me  that  there 
was  much  to  be  learned  from  the  old  gate. 
So,  with  no  more  ado,  deciding  that  the 
query  in  my  mind  must  be  settled,  I  started 
out  to  make  inquiries,  little  dreaming  that 
I  had  a  fortnight's  work  before  me. 

I  examined  the  gateway  closely  for  the 
first  time. 

Cramped  between  tenements,  it  seems  to 
hold  its  place  mainly  by  the  tenacity  of  the 
ironwork  of  which  it  is  made.  It  is  a  gate- 
way of  a  bygone  day,  tall,  with  rusty  bars  of 
ancient  pattern,  and  over  it  a  narrow  twisted 
half-circle  of  fretted  ironwork.  Where  the 
two  sides  of  the  gate  come  together  is  a  dilap- 
idated  lock,  which   serves   no   purpose    now, 

[246] 


WHERE   SILENCE    REIGNS 

save  to  sustain  a  chain  and  a  padlock.  On 
this  day  the  gate  was  shut,  just  as  I  had 
always  seen  it,  and  fastened  by  the  rusty  chain. 
Standing  beside  the  closed  gate  I  could  look 
through  its  bars  and  see  a  stretch  of  fifty  feet 
along  a  paved  way,  lined  by  the  sides  of  ten- 
ement-houses, that  came  to  an  abrupt  end  in 
a  second  gateway ;  this  last  one  of  boards, 
but  with  never  a  chink  or  a  broken  space 
through  which  to  peep  at  what  was  beyond. 
Still,  far  over  this  second  gate  can  be  seen 
the  tips  of  waving  trees  which  in  itself  is 
enough  to  excite  curiosity.  For  in  this  part 
of  the  city  the  houses  are  so  thickly  bunched 
that  not  a  foot  is  spared  for  even  a  bit  of 
green,  and  if  a  few  blades  of  grass  struggle 
out  from  between  brick-paved  courts,  they 
are  ruthlessly  ground  out  of  existence  by 
heavy  shoes,  as  if  they  were  some  poisonous 
and  hurtful  thing.  In  such  a  quarter  as  this, 
trees   are  more   than   unusual,   they  are  won- 

[247] 


WHERE    SILENCE    REIGNS 

derful,  sights.  So,  being  curious  to  know 
how  these  trees  came  to  be  in  such  a  place, 
and  seeing  it  quite  useless  to  attempt  to  pass 
through  two  barred  gates,  I  travelled  around 
the  block,  confidently  believing  that  there 
must  be  some  passageway  that  would  lead  to 
them.  But  search  as  I  would,  there  was  not 
a  sign  of  any  inlet.  The  houses  were  closely 
set  side  by  side  on  every  street,  making  the 
block  a  solid  mass  of  brick  and  mortar. 

However,  one  who  makes  a  practice  of  delv- 
ing into  the  mysteries  of  the  city's  past  must 
not  be  discouraged  by  such  an  ordinary  obsta- 
cle as  a  building,  more  especially  if  this  be  a 
tenement  where  the  door  is  always  open. 
So,  resolved  upon  solving  the  mystery  of 
those  waving  tree-tops,  I  walked  through  the 
first  open  door,  mounted  five  flights  of  stairs, 
and,  without  interference,  arrived  at  the  roof. 
Having  gone  so  far  I  made  a  discovery — for 
now  it  was  easy  enough  to  see  that  the  walls 

[248J 


WHERE   SILENCE    REIGNS 

of  the  tenements  hid  a  long-forgotten  cem- 
etery. There,  far  below  me,  like  a  miniature 
picture,  was  a  graveyard,  so  shut  in  by  dwell- 
ings that  to  one  who  walks  the  near-by 
streets,  unconscious  of  its  existence,  it  is  as 
completely  lost  as  though  it  had  never  been. 
There  it  lies  within  a  stone's  throw  of  four 
busy  thoroughfares,  where  the  rush  of  ele- 
vated trains  and  the  rumble  of  wagons  fill 
every  moment  of  the  day  with  noise  and  tur- 
moil— a  quiet  city  of  the  dead,  with  gravel 
paths  and  wild,  luxurious  growth  of  weeds, 
and  nothing  but  a  rusty  gate  and  a  few  tree- 
tops  to  give  hint  of  its  existence  to  the  thou- 
sands of  people  who  hourly  pass  it  by. 

But,  while  this  house-top  view  was  satisfy- 
ing to  the  eye,  the  hidden  graveyard  must 
have  a  history,  and  this  could  never  be 
learned  by  viewing  it  from  afar.  There  is  a 
guardian  of  this  old  graveyard — a  man  who 
has    held  the   post  so  long   that    in   a  general 


WHERE    SILENCE    REIGNS 

way  he  has  grown  to  resemble  somewhat  the 
wrought-iron  gate.  He  is  so  rusty  and  bent 
with  age  that  one  has  to  imagine  what  a  fine, 
straight  man  he  was  in  his  youth.  Having 
found  this  ancient  guardian,  I  induced  him, 
after  much  persuasion,  to  unlock  the  iron 
gate,  and  then  the  second  one  of  wood  at 
the  end  of  the  paved  way,  and  so  was  trans- 
ferred from  bustling  city  to  old-time  silence. 
Nearly  a  hundred  years  ago  this  had  been  a 
quiet  little  spot  far  from  the  active  life  of  the 
city,  but  gradually,  as  the  town  stretched 
northward,  it  had  been  sealed  up  amid  ac- 
cumulated houses. 

My  guide  seemed  jealous  of  the  antiquity 
of  the  place,  for  he  assured  me  more  than 
once,  as  soon  as  the  wooden  gate  was  locked 
behind  us,  that  I  must  remember  that  this 
was  the  old  Marble  Cemetery,  and  not  at  all 
to  be  confounded  with  the  new  Marble  Cem- 
etery, which  is  only  a  block  away.      I  knew 

[252] 


WHERE   SILENCE    REIGNS 

of  the  other  cemetery,  but  had  certainly 
never  thought  of  calling  it  "  new,"  since  it 
was  considered  old  long  before  I  was  born. 

Once  within  the  gate  I  looked  around.  It 
was  easy  to  see  now  that  the  place  has  an 
enclosing  wall  of  its  own  quite  seventeen  feet 
high,  the  original  wall  that  marked  the  limits 
before  the  tenements  were  allowed  to  over- 
shadow it.  It  was  also  plain  to  see  that  the 
graveyard  still  retains  much  of  what  must 
have  been  great  beauty.  Extending  the 
length  of  it  are  three  paths  of  hard,  white 
sand,  joined  at  either  end  by  similar  walks. 
There  are  no  tombstones,  but  the  resting- 
places  of  the  dead  are  marked  by  slabs  of 
marble  fixed  in  the  enclosing  wall  a  few  feet 
above  the  ground.  Though  the  marble  slabs 
are  stained  and  the  inscriptions  blurred  by 
the  ravages  of  cold  winters  and  the  blistering 
heat  of  many  summers,  thev  are  still  distinct 
enough    to    permit    the    names    to    be    read, 

1.^53  J 


WHERE   SILENCE    REIGNS 

names  that  in  the  past  belonged  to  men  as- 
sociated with  the  growth  and  progress  of  the 
city;  such  names  as  Judson,  Holland,  Gros- 
venor,  Oates,  Lorillard,  Wyckoff,  and  Blood- 
good.  Far  above  the  paths  the  tops  of  the 
ailantus-trees  meet,  wild  vines  trail  at  the 
foot  of  the  wall,  grass  and  weeds  grow  rank 
along  the  paths,  and  patches  of  wild  plants 
bloom  generously  in  summer.  In  a  corner 
of  the  yard  is  the  receiving-vault,  low,  and 
of  rough-hewn  stone,  crumbling  in  pict- 
uresque decay  now,  for  it  has  been  many  a 
long  year  out  of  use. 

While  I  looked  at  these  things,  the  guar- 
dian of  the  place  explained  to  me  that  when 
the  graveyard  was  laid  out  it  belonged  to  a 
single  family,  but  after  a  quarter  of  a  century 
an  association  was  incorporated  to  control  it. 

Later,  when  the  opportunity  afforded,  I 
looked  over  the  specifications  of  that  associa- 
tion, and    found   them  curious    reading ;    for 

[254] 


WHERE   SILENCE    REIGNS 

they  tell  that  the  ground  is  intended  as  "  a 
place  of  interment  for  gentlemen,"  and  is  to 
be  most  "  exclusive."  It  always  remained  so, 
and,  as  the  term  **  gentlemen  "  seemed  to  be 
synonymous  with  riches,  the  ground  was  used 
almost   entirely   by  the  wealthiest    persons    of 


The  Dead-House  in  the  Corner. 

the  town.  When  the  region  about  the 
graveyard  began  to  lose  its  sylvan  character, 
and  bosky  lanes  gave  way  to  brick-paved 
streets,  year  by  year  fewer  bodies  were  laid  to 
rest    there,  and    after   a    time  they  were    re- 

[^55] 


WHERE   SILENCE    REIGNS 

moved  from  the  vaults  and  taken  to  resting- 
places  remote  from  the  noise  and  travail  of 
the  city. 

I  wondered  why  it  was  that  this  place  had 
been  allowed  to  remain  undisturbed  in  this 
congested  district,  and  my  communicative 
guide  told  me  that  indeed  there  had  been 
made  efforts  from  time  to  time  to  have  the 
lonely,  hidden  spot  converted  into  yards  for 
the  near-by  houses,  and  that  some  philan- 
thropic souls  had  spent  time  and  money 
seeking  to  have  it  made  info  a  playground 
for  children. 

'*  But,  bless  you,"  said  he,  **  that  will  never 
be  done,  for  they  never  could  get  the  stock- 
holders to  meet ;  for  the  first  stockholders  are 
buried  here,  and  the  deeds  have  changed 
hands  time  and  time  again,  and  no  one 
knows  where  to  find  them  or  their  owners." 

It  was  as  the  old  man  said.  I  found  that 
many    attempts    had    been    made    to    collect 

[C156J 


WHERE    SILENCE    REIGNS 

these  deeds,  all  unavailing.  And  so  the 
walled-up  cemetery  remains,  jealously  cared 
for  by  its  rusty  old  guardian,  who  will  doubt- 


The   Forgotten    Graveyard. 

less  look  after  it  until  his  day  shall  come  to 
be  relieved  of  his  trust  by  the  Guardian  who 
watches  over  us  all. 

[257] 


TOWN    MARKETS    FROM 
THEIR    EARLIEST    DAYS 


J  J     iy»3cj 


Tp^'^ 


nA«?K*=-^*    '*'''"*» 


-r>£//=?      e/^«*- 


/&sr     DaVS 


TOWN    MARKETS    FROM 
THEIR    EARLIEST    DAYS 

THE  town  market  is  an  institution 
brought  by  the  Dutch  from  Holhind. 
In  the  open  space  before  the  Fort, 
the  green  spot  which  in  later  years  became 
Bowling  Green,  the  first  official  town  market 
of  New  Amsterdam  was  set  up  in  the  year  i  659. 
Here  the  farmers  and  butchers  gathered  one 
day  in  each  week.  In  the  fall  of  the  year, 
too,  on  this  same  green,  there  was  a  cattle 
market  where  cows  and  goats  and  hogs  and 
sheep  were  brought  in  from  the  surrounding 
country  to  be  sold.  Every  possible  induce- 
ment was  put  forth  to  draw  the  farm-people 
to  this  cattle  market,  and  among  other  meas- 
ures a  law  was  passed  by  which  no  stranger 
at  this  time  could  be  arrested   for  debt  ;    for 

[261] 


TOWN    MARKETS 

the  towns-people  had  a  great  habit  of  lock- 
ing up  poor-paying  farmers  whenever  they 
caught   them   in   the   town. 

The  first  markets  of  New  Amsterdam  were 
very  simple  affairs — open  spaces,  with  a  sham- 
ble at  one  side,  where  the  butcher  stood  pro- 
tected from  the  vicissitudes  of  the  weather. 
But  when  the  Dutch  rule  ended  and  New 
Amsterdam  became  New  York,  there  were 
improvements  in  many  directions,  and  the 
markets  came  in  for  their  share.  The  sham- 
bles disappeared,  and  substantial  buildings  took 
their  place.  Just  as  the  seventeenth  century 
closed,  one  .of  these  improved  buildings  was 
erected  on  the  East  River  shore,  pleasantly 
situated  in  a  valley,  with  a  little  stream  bub- 
bling beside  it  to  the  river.  The  Dutch  word 
for  valley  being  "  v'lei,"  it  was  called  the 
"  V'lei  Market."  But  the  English,  finding 
this  a  hard  name  to  pronounce,  quickly  cor- 
rected   it    to    an   easier  one,  and  called   it   the 

[262J 


TOWN    MARKETS 

**  Fly  Market."  The  valley  through  which 
the  little  stream  ran  has  become  Maiden 
Lane. 

For  more  than  a  hundred  years  the  Fly 
Market  endured.  It  was  still  standing  in 
1820,  when  the  Agricultural  Society  offered 
three  prizes  of  silver  to  the  farmers  who 
should  produce  the  best  butter.  There  was 
one  farmer  with  a  stand  in  the  Fly  Market 
who  made  a  superior  quality  of  butter,  but 
whose  pound  rolls  were  often  suspected  of 
being  short  of  weight.  One  morning  when 
the  weighmaster  came  suddenly  into  the 
market,  this  farmer,  knowing  that  his  rolls  of 
that  day  were  scant  weight,  slipped  a  guinea 
piece  into  the  top  roll.  It  was  weighed  and 
found  to  be  satisfactory.  But  close  by  stood 
a  Quaker  who  had  w^atched  the  proceeding. 
He  picked  up  the  roll  with  the  guinea  piece 
in  it,  and  said  : 

"  I  take  this  roll." 


TOWN    MARKETS 

"  Not  so,"  said  the  farmer,  quickly;  *'  that 
is  sold  to  a  friend." 

"  If  they  all  weigh  alike,  thee  can  give 
thy  friend  another  roll,"  said  the  Quaker,  who 
then  appealed  to  the  weighmaster. 

*' Of  a  certainty,"  said  he;  *' a  customer  to 
whom  a  pound  roll  is  priced  has  a  right  to 
take  what  roll  he  will." 

So  the  Quaker  quietly  put  the  guinea  roll 
into  his  basket,  and,  paying  the  three  shil- 
lings for  it,  turned  away  with  the  parting  re- 
mark : 

**  Thee  will  not  find  cheating  to  be  always 
profitable." 

There  was  a  time  when  Broadway,  at 
Maiden  Lane,  wore  a  far  different  air  from 
that  of  the  present  time  ;  for  the  greater  part 
of  its  width  was  taken  up  by  a  long,  low, 
rambling  market  building,  stocked  with 
green-grocers'  products,  with  row  upon  row 
of  quarters   of  beef,  and   table  after   table  of 

[266] 


TOWN    MARKETS 

large,  wet,  shining  fish.  It  was  a  long  ago 
day  that  the  market  stood  there,  for  it  was 
built  in  the  year  1738.  The  towns-people 
who  lived  in  the  sparsely  settled  section  along 
the  Hudson  River,  a  region  that  was  all 
countryside,  had  complained  that  the  markets 
in  the  lower  parts  of  the  town  were  ill  situ- 
ated for  their  use,  and  made  claim  for  one  of 
their  own.  The  distance  between  what  was 
then  the  town  and  the  outlying  districts 
would  seem  ot  little  account  now,  for  it  was 
scarcely  a  dozen  city  blocks  ;  but  the  muddy 
roads  that  led  to  the  unpaved  streets  in  those 
days  made  it  a  long  way.  So  the  people  re- 
joiced greatly  when  the  Oswego  Market  was 
built  in  the  middle  of  Broadway. 

Within  a  few  years  thereafter  the  character 
of  Broadway,  in  the  vicinity  of  the  new  mar- 
ket, changed  greatly.  So  many  buvers  were 
attracted  that  merchants  of  every  sort  set  up 
their    stores    nearby ;    and    the     neighboring 

[267] 


TOWN    MARKETS 

streets,  which  had  until  now  been  sunny 
Httle  byroads,  leading  away  to  the  river,  took 
on  the  character  of  a  market-place  also,  and 
the  vicinity  became  the  chief  buying  and  sell- 
ing mart  of  the  city.  So,  when  the  Oswego 
Market  had  stood  for  thirty  years,  there  arose 
as  loud  a  clamor  to  have  it  removed  as  there 
had  been  to  have  it  erected,  for  the  market 
and  the  stores  quite  interfered  with  all  traffic 
on  this  main  thoroughfare  of  the  city. 

Now  the  butchers  and  storekeepers  had  no 
wish  to  see  their  flourishing  business  location 
taken  from  them,  and  they  fought  bitterly 
any  attempt  at  a  change.  The  talk  in  favor, 
and  the  argument  in  disfavor,  of  removing  the 
market  went  on  for  a  long  time,  until,  in 
1 77 1,  the  city  authorities  decided  to  clear 
Broadway.  Then  came  up  the  question  of- 
whither  the  market  was  to  be  taken.  Many 
sites  were  proposed.  Some  suggested  the  City 
Common,  which  is  now  the  City  Hall  Park. 

[268] 


TOWN    MARKETS 

Finally  a  site  was  thought  of  that  everybody 
seemed  satisfied  with.  The  market  in  Broad- 
way was  torn  down,  and  a  new  one  set  up  at 
Meiser's  Dock,  on  the  Hudson  River  shore, 
just  where  the  Washington  Market  is  now. 
And  the  hrst  meat  sold  in  this  new  market 
was  the  tiesh  of  a  hear  that  had  been  killed 
close  by  as  it  clambered  up  the  river-bank 
after  swimming  from  the  Jersey  shore.  From 
this  incident  the  new  market  was  by  popular 
consent  given  the  name  of  the  Bear  Market, 
and  was  so  called  until  the  year  1814.  Then 
it  was  demolished,  and  another  building  set  up 
that  took  its  name  from  the  near-by  street, 
and  was  called,  and  is  still  called,  Washing- 
ton Market. 

At  the  foot  of  Wall  Street,  then  quite  a 
new  thoroughfare,  the  first  public  slave  mar- 
ket was  established,  in  the  year  1709,  occu- 
pying the  spot  that  had  been  taken  up  in 
Dutch    times    by    a   block-house  and   a   halt- 

1^7 -J 


TOWN    MARKETS 

moon  battery.  This  was  the  place  to  which 
in  after  years  all  the  meal  publicly  sold  was 
taken.  From  this  circumstance  it  came  to  be 
called  the  Meal  Market ;  but,  even  as  such, 
it  still  continued  the  place  where  slaves  stood 
to  be  hired  or  sold. 

This  Meal  Market  came  to  be  looked  upon 
as  a  public  nuisance,  as  is  shown  by  a  petition 
to  the  authorities,  dated  1762,  which  reads: 

*'  It  greatly  obstructs  the  agreeable  prospect 
of  the  East  River,  which  those  that  live  in 
Wall  Street  would  otherwise  enjoy  ;  and,  fur- 
thermore, occasions  a  dirty  street,  offensive 
to  the  inhabitants  on  each  side  and  disagree- 
able to  those  who  pass  to  and  from  the  coffee- 
house, a  place  of  great  resort." 

This  was  too  serious  an  objection  to  be  over- 
looked, so  it  was  pulled  down.  Another  mar- 
ket of  great  note  was  established  about  the  year 
1735,  in  the  Burgher's  Path,  at  the  foot  of 
William  Street.     It  was  rebuilt  once  or  twice, 

[272] 


TOWN    MARKETS 

and  during  the  first  quarter  of  the  nineteenth 
century,  in  the  last  years  of  its  existence,  it 
was  called  Franklin  Market,  for  then  there 
was  a  tendency  to  call  all  manner  of  things 
after  the  noted  Benjamin  Franklin. 

From  the  time  that  the  very  first  market 
was  established,  there  were  laws  which  com- 
pelled those  who  dealt  in  meats  and  vege- 
tables to  sell  in  the  public  markets  and  no- 
where else.  As  the  town  grew  larger  and 
larger,  there  was  determined  opposition  to 
this  state  of  affairs,  and  the  climax  came  in 
1841,  when  an  ordinance  was  passed  permit- 
ting the  sale  of  meat  and  vegetables  anywhere 
in  the  city,  in  shops  as  well  as  in  the 
markets. 

Of  course,  the  market  people  fought  the 
passage  of  the  ordinance,  but  it  was  passed 
for  all  that,  and  very  soon  a  new  institution, 
in  the  form  of  the  corner  green-grocer's  stand 
and    meat  shop,    came    into    existence.      But 

[275J 


TOWN    MARKETS 

although  there  had  seemed  to  be  a  general 
demand  for  the  doing-away  with  the  markets 
as  exclusive  places  for  meat-selling,  they  were 
too  firmly  established  to  be  suddenly  abol- 
ished. So  the  corner  shopkeepers  had  a  hard 
time  of  it  for  a  while,  and,  in  order  to  make 
business  pay,  they  combined  with  the  regular 
trade  rear  bar-rooms  for  the  sale  of  spirit- 
uous and  malt  liquors.  Later,  when  the  cor- 
ner storekeepers  decided  that  they  could 
carry  on  trade  in  the  middle  of  a  block  as 
well  as  on  the  corners,  they  removed  when 
they  saw  fit,  but  they  left  the  corner  bar- 
rooms to  look  out  for  themselves.  These,  in 
due  time,  became  full-fledged  saloons,  and 
there  they  are  to  this  day,  one  on  every 
corner. 


[a76J 


OLD-FASHIONED    PLEASURE- 
GARDENS 


JL 


L 


LCofJAa  ^      '■■^ 


"1  r^?"^'"^'^  r 


fi'fJAAlK'.l*^    S' 


VI/08TH  5  r- 


][z:d 


I         _   THtse^M^    s' 


_-i\-A 


THH 


-\v 


OtD    r/\'SHION£0 


OLD-FASHIONED    PLEASURE- 
GARDENS 

THE  pleasure-gardens  in  the  New  York 
of  old  were  delightful  places  in  which 
to  spend  an  afternoon  or  evening,  made 
so  by  their  invariable  quietness  and  simplicity  ; 
qualities  not  much  in  demand  amid  the  throb 


Broadway,  between  Duane  and  Pearl  Streets,  1807. 

[■^79j 


OLD-FASHIONED   PLEASURE-GARDENS 

and  whirl  and  glamour  of  the  roof-gardens  of 
to-day.  It  is  pleasant  to  walk  along  glittering 
Broadway,  and  conjure  up  the  time  when  this 
highway  was  but  a  dim  lane.  And  surely  no 
one  can  pass  along  near  Leonard  Street  with- 
out looking  about,  half  unconsciously,  for  some 
sign  of  Contoit's  Garden.  But  where  it  stood 
there  is  nothing  now  but  a  row  of  conven- 
tional houses  teeming  with  business  life,  and, 
though  there  may  be  hundreds  of  people  about, 
one  searches  in  vain  among  them  to  find  a  face 
that  will  light  up  with  reminiscent  pleasure 
at  the  sound  of  the  name  of  Contoit. 

But  that  name  carries  my  own  thoughts 
back  a  long  time  ;  let  me  see,  a  hundred  years? 
Yes,  more  than  that,  to  the  eve  of  the  Revo- 
lution. I  see  a  city  filled  with  British  soldiers 
whose  presence  are  a  menace  to  those  who 
sympathize  ever  so  little  with  the  new-born 
nation.  And  in  that  little  city,  torn  with 
anxiety,  standing  opposite  the  Common  I  see 

[280] 


OLD-FASHIONED   PLEASURE-GARDENS 

the  inn  of  Mr.  Montagnie,  which  had  been 
a  favorite  meeting-place  of  the  Sons  of  Liberty, 
and   know  that   it   has  been  given  over  to  the 


Broadway   at   Murrav   Street,   1820. 

soldiers  of  England.  In  the  sweep  ot  time  the 
Revolution  passed,  and  left  a  free  country 
where  once  had  been  a  British  province ; 
and  a  city  slowly  recovering   from    the  effects 

[281] 


OLD-FASHIONED   PLEASURE-GARDENS 

of  the  clash  of  arms.  When  quiet  came  with 
the  birth  of  a  new  century,  the  inn  that  had 
been  Montagnie's  had  John  H.  Contoit  for 
its  owner.  A  tiny  green  yard  beside  the 
house,  and  a  few  trees,  had  acquired  the  narne 
of  Contoit's  Garden.  Large  enough  for  a 
modest  inn,  the  garden  was  much  too  small 
for  the  thriving  business  that  Contoit  built 
up.  So  when  he  found — farther  along  Broad- 
way, close  by  what  is  now  Park  Place — a  space 
larger  by  a  few  feet,  he  transferred  his  business 
thither,  and  in  agreement  with  the  increased 
dimensions  called  the  new  place  the  New  York 
Garden.  Still  the  business  thrived,  for  he  was 
a  progressive  man,  and  in  another  four  years, 
when  it  had  come  to  be  1806,  these  quar- 
ters also  were  crammed,  and  he  once  more 
moved  along  Broadway  ;  this  time  near  Leon- 
ard Street.  This  last  was  the  most  successful 
ot  all  the  ventures  of  Contoit,  and  the  one 
that    the    old    New  Yorker    best    remembers 

[282] 


OLD-FASHIONED    PLEASURP:-GARDENS 

when    his    thoughts    drift    back    to   youthful 
days. 

The  garden  itself  was  a  narrow  space  be- 
tween houses,  where  the  trees  grew  so  close 
that  even  on  the  brightest  days  the  sunlight 
could  scarcely  penetrate  the  branches.  Along 
the  sides  were  whitewashed  booths,  and  in 
each  one  of  these  a  wooden  table,  at  which 
four  persons  could  sit,  facing  each  other,  on 
wooden  benches,  in  fairly  comfortable  fashion. 
After  dark,  small  glass  globes,  each  with  a 
glowing  taper  floated  in  sperm-oil,  gave  an 
excuse  for  advertising  the  illumination  ;  but 
the  faint  rays  they  gave  out  scarcely  lightened 
the  darkness.  But  neither  the  crowded  quar- 
ters nor  rude  simplicity  detracted  from  the 
excellence  of  the  ice-cream,  the  strength  of 
the  lemonade,  or  the  tastiness  of  the  cake — 
for  these  were  all  that  were  sold,  and  at  most 
reasonable  prices — and  all  in  all,  there  was  an 
air  of  romance  and  repose  about  the  place  that 


OLD-FASHIONED  PLEASURE-GARDENS 

made   it    a    famous    meeting  -  ground    during 
close  upon  forty  years. 

There  was  another   garden   on    Broadway, 


Contoit's  "New  York  Garden,"  1828. 

and,  although  it  existed  long  before  my  time, 
I  have  often  heard  it  spoken  of.  At  the 
southern  edge  of  what  had  been  a  dismal 
swamp,   until   he  diverted  the  waters  of  the 

[284] 


OLD-FASHIONED   PLEASURE-GARDENS 

Collect  Pond  and  reclaimed  it,  Anthony  Rut- 
gers lived  for  twenty  years  or  more,  in  a  line 
old  mansion.  When  he  died,  in  the  year 
1750,  he  willed  his  house  as  well  as  the  land 
that  he  had  made  fertile  to  his  son-in-law.  It 
was  the  son-in-law  who  gave  his  name  to  the 
old-time  swamp,  and  left  it  a  pasture  of  ex- 
ceeding beauty  for  future  generations  to  call 
Lispenard's  Meadow. 

Old  Rutgers  had  not  been  dead  long  when 
his  house  and  the  grounds  about  it,  all  laid 
out  with  flowers  and  shrubs,  and  boxwood- 
bordered  paths  that  were  the  delight  of  his 
old  age,  were  bought  by  one  John  Jones,  who 
turned  the  house  into  a  tavern  and  the  grounds 
into  a  public  garden,  and  called  them  by  the 
name  of  Ranelagh.  A  hall  for  dancing  was 
set  up  in  the  centre  of  the  lawn,  and  there  on 
each  Monday  and  Thursday  a  band  discoursed 
sweet  music,  and  there  was,  as  set  forth  at 
great   length  in  Mr.  Jones's  prospectus  at  his 

[285J 


X 


OLD-FASHIONED  PLEASURE-GARDENS 

opening,  "  good  entertainment  for  ladies  and 
gentlemen."  The  fashion  of  the  town  went 
as  customers  to   the   old   house   where   many 


New   York    Ho>pual    in    Broadway. 
[286] 


OLD-FASHIONED  PLEASURE-GARDENS 

of  them  had  visited  as  guests  in  Rutgers's 
day. 

All  gardens  have  their  day,  and  the  days  of 
Ranelagh  numbered  twenty  years.  Then  the 
houses  were  destroyed,  the  grounds  levelled, 
and  in  their  place  arose  the  buildings  of  the 
New  York  Hospital,  set  in  the  midst  of  the 
trim-kept  lawns.  The  last  remnant  of  it  was 
done  away  with  when  the  green  paths  of  the 
New  York  Hospital,  at  Duane  Street,  unable 
to  withstand  the  invading  houses  of  the  city's 
growth,  disappeared  forever  in  favor  of  com- 
mercial interests ;  iconoclastic  interests  that 
are  no  respecters  of  green  and  historic  lawns. 

Before  the  days  when  Rutgers  reclaimed 
the  wild  morass,  of  which  the  hospital  grounds 
were  to  become  the  last  reminder,  in  fact, 
quite  early  in  the  eighteenth  century,  midway 
between  the  city  and  the  point  where  Rutgers 
was  to  build  his  homestead,  a  pretty  little 
house  was  set  up.      It  was  on  a  grassy  hillside 

[287] 


OLD-FASHIONED  PLEASURE-GARDENS 

on  the  outskirts  of  the  town.  Not  such  a  one 
as  may  be  seen  in  the  suburbs  of  this  day,  but 
a  structure  picturesque  in  its  ruggedness,  quite 
low,  with  enough  great  rough  beams  to  hold 
up  a  mountain,  it  would  seem.  The  house 
built,  and  part  of  the  grassy  slope  laid  out 
into  a  garden  with  plants  and  flowers,  and 
fenced  in,  the  whole  was  called  the  Bowling 
Green  Garden.  It  was  the  last  stopping-place 
on  the  road  from  Greenwich  Village  to  the 
city,  and  as  such  it  thrived  with  only  one 
great  incident  to  mark  its  career.  This  was 
when,  in  1750,  its  name  was  changed  to 
Vauxhall  Garden,  in  imitation  of  the  celebrated 
London  resort  of  that  name.  But  little  by 
little  the  city  crept  nearer,  slowly,  if  surely, 
for  it  took  quite  a  hundred  years  for  it  to 
grow  much  less  than  a  mile.  It  reached  the 
Vauxhall,  overgrew  the  garden,  and  then,  like 
a  rising  tide,  crept  about  the  little  house  and 
left  it  shorn  of  its  flower-pots  and  grassy  walks, 

[288] 


OLD-FASHIONED   PLEASURE-GARDENS 

a  tottering  wreck  amid  a  host  of  strong  young 
neighbors.  Nowadays  Greenwich  and  War- 
ren Streets  cross  over  the  old-time  slope,  and 
a  near-by  seed-store  gives  the  only  breath  of 
country  scent  that  can  be  met  with  in  that 
dark  and  crowded  neighborhood. 

Once  it  was  enough  to  say  that  a  house  was 
close  by  Bayard's  Mount,  or  Bunker  Hill,  as 
it  was  sometimes  called,  for  any  citizen  to 
know  just  where  it  was.  But  now  no  one 
would  know  the  place,  for  Mulberry  Street 
where  it  touches  Grand  has  cut  through  the 
elevation  which  was  once  the  highest  point 
on  the  Island  of  Manhattan,  overlooking  both 
the  city  and  country  beyond,  and  there  is  no 
sign  of  it.  Yet  in  the  year  1798,  Joseph 
Delacroix  set  up  a  garden  close  by  Bayard's 
Mount  and  called  it  Vauxhall.  This  new 
Vauxhall  occupied  the  Bayard  homestead, 
which  was  near  the  Mount,  and  had  been  the 
home 'of  the  Bayard  family  for  fifty  years.     A 

I289] 


OLD-FASHIONED  PLEASURE-GARDENS 

little  lane  (now  Broome  Street)  led  to  it  from 
the  Bowery  Road,  where  there  was  a  stout 
wooden  gate  to  close  its  entrance.  During 
the  Revolution  fortifications  had  been  thrown 
across  the  farm,  and  the  principal  one  was  at 
Bayard's  Mount,  and  was  called  Bunker  Hill. 
The  second  Vauxhall  thrived  well  enough, 
but  Delacroix,  seeing  the  city  spread  north- 
ward year  by  year,  and  desiring  that  his  garden 
should  be  a  truly  suburban  resort,  gave  up  the 
Bayard  homestead  and  carried  the  name  Vaux- 
hall to  a  new  section  far  away  up  the  Bowery 
Road,  just  south  of  where  Astor  Place  now  is, 
between  Fourth  Avenue  and  Broadway.  On 
this  spot  for  some  years  a  Swiss  named  Jacob 
Sperry  had  raised  vegetables  for  the  city 
markets,  and  cultivated  flowers  for  his  own 
delight  until  1803,  when  he  sold  his  patch  of 
ground  to  John  Jacob  Astor.  It  was  Astor 
who  leased  it  to  Delacroix,  by  whom  it  was 
made    into    the    third   Vauxhall.      Delacroix 

[290] 


o 


OLD-FASHIONED  PLEASURE-GARDENS 

sought  to  add  art  to  nature.  The  vegetables 
were  banished,  but  the  flower-beds  were 
spared,  and  between  them  were  fashioned 
sanded  walks,  and  in  the  midst  were  erected 
a  dancing-pavilion  and  a  stage  for  theatrical 
performances. 

As  this  garden  was  on  the  Bowery  Road, 
and  that  was  then  the  chief  driveway  of  the 
city,  it  became  exceedingly  popular,  and  con- 
tinued so  for  many  years.  Even  in  1827, 
when  Lafayette  Place  was  opened  and  cut  the 
garden  in  two,  it  was  still  kept  up.  But  little 
by  little  the  grounds  were  crowded  out.  In 
1853  ^^^  Astor  Library  was  erected  quite  in 
the  centre  of  the  third  Vauxhall,  and  two 
years  later  the  last  of  the  old  garden  buildings 
disappeared,  and  its  days  were  ended. 


[293] 


SPRING    VALLEY    FARM 


SPRING    VALLEY    FARM 

WHERE  the  East  River  touches  the 
Manhattan  shore  just  opposite  the 
south  end  of  what  was  Captain 
Manning's  Island,  and  is  now  Blackwell's 
Island  ;  where,  in  quiet  weather,  the  waters 
curl  around  the  piles,  and  where,  on  stormy 
nights,  the  waves  rush  at  the  piers  as  though 
they  longed  to  beat  them  downi — right  along 
this  part  of  the  Manhattan  shore,  in  the  days 
before  the  Revolution,  stretched  the  Spring 
Valley  Farm. 

In  the  thirteenth  year  after  the  Dutch 
town  of  New  Amsterdam  had  become  the 
English  town  of  New  York,  Sir  Edmund 
Andros,  who  was  Governor  then,  granted  this 
tract  of  sixty  acres  along  the  river,  four 
miles  from  the  settlement,  to  one  David  Duf- 

[297J 


SPRING   VALLEY    FARM 

fore.  And  in  the  next  hundred  years,  as  the 
land  passed  from  one  member  of  the  family 
to  another,  the  recorded  deeds  show  the  fam- 
ily name  changed  successively  from  Duffore 
to  Deffore,  to  Devore,  to  Devoore,  and  finally 
to  De  Voor. 

Now,  although  the  De  Voor  Spring  Valley 
land  has  become  a  city  farm  where  the  prod- 
uct of  its  soil  is  grim  houses  and  paved  streets 
— a  crop  growing  more  abundant  with  each 
passing  season — the  great  magician  Fancy  has 
power  to  conjure  up  the  thronging  ghosts 
of  the  past  that  wander  over  it,  and  to  find 
more  than  one  forgotten  relic  of  olden  days 
to  dwell  upon.  Surely  the  wraiths  of  a  long- 
gone  day  could  find  no  safer  resting-place 
than  the  Spring  Valley  Farm-house,  built  al- 
most at  the  water's  edge  by  one  of  the  old 
De  Voors.  The  dilapidation  which  comes 
with  the  long  lapse  of  time  seems  to  have 
passed   lightly  over  it,  leaving   it  much   as  it 

[298] 


SPRING    VALLEY    FARM 

was  in  the  beginning.  Facing  the  wrong 
way  for  modern  Fifty-third  Street,  it  seems 
to  be  tarrying  away  an  endless  existence  in  a 
straggling  lumber-yard,  amid  a  mass  of  cast- 
away building  material. 

But  for  all  its  age  (and  it  stood  there  long 
years  before  there  was  another  anywhere 
about)  it  is  stanch  and  solid,  and  for  the  re- 
searcher has  charms  enough  to  quite  fill  a 
good-sized  catalogue.  It  stands  higher  above 
the  ground  than  its  builder  could  ever  have 
intended  that  it  should,  for  the  street  is  low 
at  this  point ;  so  that  the  basement  of  the 
house  is  above  ground  rather  than  under  it 
as  it  should  be,  and  its  foundation-stones  are 
bare,  thus  giving  it  a  most  peculiar  appear- 
ance, as  though  they  must  be  growing  and 
forcing  the  house  upward.  Above  are  the  one 
story  and  attic,  with  the  stanchest  of  broad, 
solid  porches,  and  a  sloping  roof,  with  three 
dormty  windows.      Once   inside   the   door,   it 

■  [301] 


SPRING   VALLEY    FARM 

is  easy  to  understand  why  the  old  farm-house 
has  withstood  so  bravely  the  shocks  of  time, 
for  it  is  supported  by  a  forest  of  great  beams, 
hewn  evidently  from  solid  trees.  Some  of 
these  have  taken  on  a  high  polish,  some  are 
battered  and  scarred  from  hard  usage,  but  all 
are  as  sturdily  upright  as  ever,  and  seem  to 
assert  that  they  will  so  continue  for  many  a 
year  yet,  if  left  to  themselves. 

Nobody  knows  just  when  this  house  came 
into  being,  but  those  who  have  searched 
through  very  many  old  records  have  agreed 
that  it  is  the  oldest  house  now  in  the  city. 
This  may  well  be,  but,  whether  it  is  so  or 
not,  it  is  beyond  all  question  the  oldest  sur- 
vival of  the  Spring  Valley  Farm. 

Just  across  from  the  lumber-yard,  in  the 
next  street,  there  is  another  house  marking  a 
somewhat  later  period.  The  wide-spreading 
ramifications  of  a  brewery  close  around  it, 
threatening  it  with  extinction,  and  more  than 

[302]      • 


SPRING   VALLEY    FARM 

threaten,  since  they  have  shorn  it  of  an  ample 
porch  that  once  spread  around  three  of 
its  sides.  But  its  peaked  roof  and  clap- 
boarded  sides  are  still  firm,  and  all  the  more 
picturesque  in  the  midst  of  the  rigid  brick 
walls,  great  chimneys  pouring  out  volumes 
of  black  smoke,  and  small  pipes  incessantly 
puffing  out  steam,  like  a  battery  spitefully 
aiming  at  this  survival.  This  second  house 
was  built  early  in  the  last  century,  when  the 
farm  was  divided  and  sold,  and  for  many  a 
year  was  called  the  Brevoort  house,  being  a 
country  residence  on  the  estate  of  the  family 
of  that  name. 

These  two  buildings,  so  reminiscent  of 
early  days  of  the  farm,  so  at  war  with  their 
surroundings,  so  fruitful  of  old-time  memo- 
ries, are  not  the  only  things  that  seem  inhar- 
monious in  that  locality.  In  the  days  of  the 
Revolution,  when  at  manv  points  along  the 
river    were    fortifications,    right    here    was    a 

[305] 


SPRING   VALLEY    FARM 

breastwork.  And  in  this  very  lumber-yard 
there  is  a  battered  shot-tower  which  has  been 
there  quite  as  long  as  the  Brevoort  house. 
The  tower,  when  put  up  in  1821,  was  in  the 
then  open  country,  and  seemed  of  wondrous 
height.  But  now,  having  for  a  quarter  of  a 
century  outlived  its  usefulness,  and  though  as 
tall  as  it  ever  was,  the  neighborhood  is  so 
changed  and  so  closely  built  upon  that  it 
seems  to  have  lost  at  least  half  of  its  height. 

Before  the  grim  tower  was  there,  before 
the  breastworks  were  set  up,  before  the  old 
farm-house  was  built,  even  in  the  days  of 
David  Duffore,  first  of  the  family,  a  little 
stream  of  water  bubbled  through  this  Spring 
Valley.  It  rose  on  the  high  and  rocky  ground 
around  which  Central  Park  was  spread  out 
at  a  later  day,  and  from  there  it  coursed  in 
a  diverse  and  deviating  direction  to  the  south, 
and  in  a  circuitous  way  to  the  east,  until  it 
came  to  the  old   farm,  which  it  crossed  where 

[306] 


SPRING   VALLEY    FARM 

Second  Avenue  was  one  day  to  stretch 
smoothly  along.  And,  finally,  it  lost  itself  in 
the  East  River,  almost  at  the  exact  point 
where  the  river  now  touches  the  starting- 
point  of  Forty-seventh  Street.  One  of  the 
owners  of  the  farm — he  of  whom  the  musty 
recorded  deeds  speak  of  as  De  Voor — 
built  a  saw-mill  at  the  mouth  of  the  little 
brook,  and  from  this  the  watery  way  took 
the  name  of  De  Voor's  Mill-stream,  some- 
times alluded  to  as  the  Sawkill  and  sometimes 
as  the  Saw-mill  Creek. 

In  De  Voor's  time,  too,  there  was  a  road 
that  crossed  the  farm,  leading  from  the  city 
and  passing  on  to  other  farms  beyond.  This 
came  to  be  a  much-travelled  way  and  was 
called  the  Eastern  Post-road.  As  the  brook 
crossed  the  farm  in  one  direction  and  the 
road  in  another,  it  was  inevitable  that  the 
road  should  also  cross  the  brook.  It  did  this, 
and  road  and  brook  together  appeared  on  the 

[307J 


SPRING    VALLEY    FARM 

surface  of  the  farm  like  a  gigantic,  but 
poorly  formed,  letter  X.  And  at  the  cross- 
ing of  the  waterway  and  the  roadway  (which 
spot  in  these  days  is  at  the  point  where  Sec- 
ond Avenue  crosses  Fifty-second  Street),  there 
was  a  bridge  over  which  the  road  led  and 
under  which  the  stream  flowed.  This  was 
called  the  Kissing  Bridge,  and  it  was  not  the 
first  bridge  of  the  kind  on  the  island,  nor  was 
it  the  last.  Twice  more  in  other  places  a 
road  crossed  a  stream  ;  and  there,  too,  was  a 
Kissing  Bridge.  The  name  was  gotten  from 
an  old  Danish  custom,  giving  to  any  gentle- 
man crossing  such  a  bridge  not  only  the 
privilege,  but  the  right,  of  kissing  the  lady 
who  chanced  to  be  by  his  side. 

Just  about  the  time  that  this  especial  Kiss- 
ing Bridge  in  the  Spring  Valley  had  its  great- 
est vogue,  toward  the  close  of  the  year  1763, 
a  bit  of  the  farm  that  bordered  on  De  Voor's 
Mill-stream   was  owned   by    a  family  named 

[308] 


f 


M 


Tne    Kissing    Bridge,  becona   Avenue   and   Fifty-second  Street. 


SPRING    VALLEY    FARM 

Beekman.  It  was  quite  right  and  proper  that 
a  brook  should  pass  through  the  estate  of  a 
Beekman,  since  the  name  Beekman  means 
"  Man  of  the  Brook,"  a  fact  that  was  so  un- 
derstood and  recognized  by  King  James  I.  of 
England  that  he  granted  to  an  early  Beek- 
man a  certain  coat-of-arms,  which  is  still  re- 
tained by  the  family,  and  which  represents  a 
rivulet  running  between  roses.  This  Beek- 
man was  a  grandfather  of  William  Beekman, 
the  first  of  the  name  in  America,  who  came 
over  with  Peter  Stuyvesant,  in  the  year  1647. 
The  particular  Beekman  who  owned  the  land 
in  the  Spring  Valley  was  James,  and  his 
house  was  built  on  ground  so  high  that  he 
called  it  Beekman's  Hill,  midway  between 
the  Kissing  Bridge  and  the  river.  It  was  a 
large,  roomy  house,  patterned  after  the  colo- 
nial houses  of  the  period,  arid  in  time  it  was 
to  harbor  many  a  tenant  that  its  owner  had 
never  dreamed  would   enter   its  doors.      This 

L3"] 


SPRING   VALLEY    FARM 

James  Beekman  had  married  Jane  Keteltas, 
an  heiress  of  the  city,  and  they  were  Uving  a 
quiet  country  Hfe  when  came  the  Revolution, 
and,  desirous  of  sharing  the  fortunes  of  the 
Americans,  they  fled  from  their  home.  Close 
upon  their  going,  the  British  army  took  pos- 
session of  the  city  and  all  of  the  outlying 
country,  and  the  Beekman  house  became  the 
head-quarters  of  the  British  general.  Sir  Will- 
iam Howe.  It  was  here  that  Nathan  Hale 
was  taken,  after  he  had  been  captured  as  a 
spy  of  Washington  ;  it  was  in  one  of  these 
rooms  that  he  was  given  such  show  of  trial 
as  he  had  ;  it  was  in  one  of  the  green-houses, 
so  near  the  De  Voor  Mill-stream  that  he 
could  hear  it  plashing  beneath  the  Kissing 
Bridge,  that  the  martyr  spy  passed  his  last 
night  on  earth.  It  was  in  this  same  house, 
too — some  say  in  the  room  where  Nathan 
Hale  was  tried — that  Major  John  Andre  re- 
ceived his  last  instructions  before  he  went  to 

[312J 


«  M 


CQ 


SPRING   VALLEY    FARM 

meet  the  traitor  Benedict  Arnold,  and  he 
doubtless  passed  over  the  little  Kissing  Bridge 
as  he  started  toward  West  Point. 

When  the  Revolution  was  at  an  end,  James 
Beekman  and  his  family  once  more  occupied 
the  house  on  the  hill. 

In  those  days  Washington  lived  in  the  city 
as  the  first  President  of  the  new  nation. 
More  than  once  the  President  stopped  at  the 
Beekman  house  in  his  favorite  ride  over  the 
"Fourteen  Miles  Round,"  and,  sometimes 
being  accompanied  by  Mrs.  Washington, 
beyond  all  doubt  he  took  dignified  advantage 
of  every  privilege  accorded  by  the  ancient 
Danish  custom  of  the  Kissing  Bridge. 

But  the  Spring  Valley  Farm  has  had  its 
day,  and  has  become"  little  more  than  a 
memory,  together  with  the  Kissing  Bridge. 
The  Beekman  house  remained  standing  until 
some  thirty  years  ago  ;  but  a  public  school  is 
on    the    site    now,    and    around    about   it    the 


SPRING    VALLEY    FARM 

streets  still  show  suggestion  of  the  high 
ground  of  Beekman's  Hill.  It  is  good  to 
think  that  the  name  has  not  died  out,  how- 
ever, for  there  is  a  Beekman  Hill  Church 
within  a  stone's  throw  from  the  school-house, 
and  not  far  off  a  short  and  narrow  thorough- 
fare, bearing  the  name  of  Beekman  Place. 


[3 '6] 


OLD    CHURCHES 


Fi^^-roisi     5-^ 


Oi-0       Z  h 


uRChi= 


y 


OLD    CHURCHES 

AN  old  building  is  a  most  interesting 
study,  being  part  and  parcel  of  his- 
tory— standing  year  after  year,  grow- 
ing older  and  older  with  each  day,  treated  for 
the  ills  that  are  destroying  it  much  as  though 
it  were  human,  and  finally  dropping  from  age 
and  passing  out  of  sight.  There  is  a  church 
that  I  never  pass  without  thinking  of  it  as 
the  symbol  of  a  quiet  and  peaceful  life,  and 
feeling  all  the  better  for  having  passed  it. 
It  stands  near  the  commencement  of  Fifth 
Avenue,  and  is  in  architectural  style  an  almost 
perfect  example  of  perpendicular  Gothic.  It 
is  a  replica,  so  far  as  its  main  portion  is  con- 
cerned, of  St.  Saviour's,  at  Bath,  England  ; 
while  in  its  tower  is  reproduced  that  ot  the 
Magdalen  Chapel  at  Oxford.     The  chapel  and 

I  3 '9  I 


OLD    CHURCHES 

the  cloister  are  of  a  much  later  date  than  the 
main  building,  but  in  them,  too,  the  style  and 
feeling  have  been  faithfully  preserved.  For 
more  than  half  a  century  this  **  Old  First  " 
Presbyterian  Church  has  stood  here  where 
Fifth  Avenue  starts,  but  to  know  its  history 
you  must  look  back  over  a  space  of  200 
years.  The  glancing  over  of  this  history  lends 
an  added  charm  to  the  building.  Founded 
in  1 716,  the  *' Old  First"  is  the  parent  of 
New  York  Presbyterianism.  For  close  upon 
fifty  years  it  was  the  only  church  of  this  order 
on  the  Island  of  Manhattan,  and  from  it  there 
branched  out,  as  colonies,  the  Brick  Church, 
the  Scotch  Church,  the  Rutgers  Riverside 
Church,  and  the  Fifth  Avenue  Presbyterian. 

It  was  in  Wall  Street,  not  more  than  two- 
score  steps  from  Broadway,  that  the  very  first 
house  for  this  congregation  was  built,  in  the 
year  171 9.  Before  that  they  had  worshipped 
in   the  City   Hall,  which  was  then  nearby  in 

[320] 


OLD    CHURCHES 

Wall  Street.  By  the  year  1766  the  attend- 
ance had  grown  so  large  that  the  church  in 
Wall  Street  was  no  longer  large  enough,  nor 
could  there  be  found  in  the  burial-ground 
beside  it  room  enough  for  the  dead.  So  the 
City  Corporation  was  petitioned  for  a  plot  on 
which  a  branch  church  might  be  built.  There 
was  a  bit  of  land  just  beside  the  road  that  led 
to  the  Fresh  Water,  land  which  in  these  days 
would  be  to  the  east  of  Park  Row  near  Duane 
Street ;  and  the  city  officials  pointed  to  that 
as  a  suitable  locality.  But  after  a  discussion 
so  long  drawn  out  that  it  seemed  never  com- 
ing to  an  end,  the  site  by  the  Fresh  Water 
road  was  given  up,  and  in  its  place  was  selected 
a  triangular  space  which  had  once  been  part 
of  the  City  Common — and  which  now  exists 
vyithin  the  bounds  of  Park  Row,  Beekman  and 
Nassau  Streets.  And  here  the  new  church 
was  built,  in  1  767,  and  as  it  was  made  of  brick 
it  was  called  the  Brick  Presbyterian  Church. 


OLD   CHURCHES 

For  ninety  years  its  congregation  worshipped 
here,  and  then  another  church  was  built  to 
take  its  place.  This  new  brick  church  (now 
grown  old)  is  still  to  be  seen  in  Fifth  Avenue 
at  Thirty-seventh  Street. 

To  anyone  who  has  ever  strolled  through 
narrow  Exchange  Place,  flanked  by  lofty 
buildings,  it  is  difficult  to  imagine  that  it  was 
once  a  lane  leading  through  a  meadow.  That 
is  what  it  was,  however,  and  quite  some  way 
from  the  city  in  the  year  1 69 1 .  The  meadow 
belonged  to  Mrs.  Dominie  Drisius,  and  for 
many  a  year  there  had  been  talk  of  building 
a  Dutch  church  there.  For  the  church  in 
the  Fort,  built  by  Governor  Kieft  in  1642, 
was  old,  and  too  small  for  the  number  of 
worshippers,  so  fast  was  the  little  town  grow- 
ing year  by  year.  In  due  course  the  plans  for 
a  new  church  were  made,  and  it  was  settled 
to  build  it  in  Mrs.  Dominie  Drisius's  meadow 
and  have   it   front  on  the   little  lane.      Work 

[322] 


Garden  Street   Church. 


OLD    CHURCHES 

upon  it  was  completed  in  1693,  and  in  honor 
of  the  church  the  lane,  which  up  to  that  time 
had  been  called  Garden  Alley,  was  renamed 
Garden  Street. 

It  was  a  quaint  little  square  building,  with 
a  brick  steeple  in  front  that  rested  on  a  square 
foundation.  The  windows  were  deep-set  and 
made  of  small  panes  held  together  with  lead. 
On  many  of  them  the  coats-of-arms  of  the 
chief  members  of  the  congregation  were 
burnt  in.  In  the  steeple  was  a  shrill,  silver- 
toned  bell  ;  not  a  new  bell,  for  it  was  the 
first  one  that  had  ever  been  brought  to  the 
island,  and  had  long  hung  in  the  steeple  of 
the  church  in  the  Fort.  In  1807,  when  the 
Garden-street  Church  was  replaced  by  a  new 
one,  there  were  many  who  thought  that  a 
new  bell  should  be  made  tor  it  ;  but  others 
loved  the  old  bell,  which  had  been  the  first 
to  call  a  Dutch  congregation  to  worship,  and 
it  was  hung  in  the  new  church  and  continued 

[3^5  J 


OLD    CHURCHES 

in  use  until  it  and  the  church  and  all  about 
it  fell  in  a  heap  of  unrecognizable  ruins  in 
the  great  lire  of  1835. 

Many  relics  were  destroyed  at  this  time. 
One  was  a  tablet  which  had  been  fixed  to 
the  face  of  the  church  in  the  Fort  when 
Kieft  built  it,  bearing  an  inscription  in  Dutch, 
which  translated  would  read  : 

An.  Dom.  1642. 
When  William  Kieft  was  Director-General  the  Con- 
gregation Built  This  Temple. 

This  tablet  was  found  buried  deep  in  the 
earth  when  the  Fort  was  demolished  in  1787, 
and  after  that  had  been  in  the  Garden-street 
Church. 

Another  Dutch  church,  the  fourth  in  suc- 
cession, was  built  in  the  year  1769,  in  what 
was  then  Fair  Street,  and  is  now  Fulton,  close 
by  William  Street.  It  was  to  the  north  of 
the  town,  and  was  called  the  North  Dutch 
Church.      This    was    a    far    more    imposing 

[326J 


North   Dutch   Church. 


OLD    CHURCHES 

building  than  most  of  the  churches  of  the 
city,  and  had  for  its  only  architectural  rival 
St.  Paul's  Chapel.  In  1842  it  was  remodelled 
and  in  1875  was  finally  torn  down. 

There  is  great  picturesqueness  about  St. 
Patrick's  Church  at  Mott  and  Prince  Streets, 
with  its  graveyard  and  high  wall  fencing 
it  in.  It  is  in  a  region  of  tenements  and 
forlorn-appearing  buildings  that  in  their  slop- 
ing roofs  and  round  windows  show  the 
architecture  of  another  decade.  The  faded 
buildings  have  grown  up  since  the  wall  was 
built;  for  when  the  church  was  set  up,  in 
181  5,  there  were  but  few  frame  farm-houses 
near  it.  The  country  about  was  a  wild  bit, 
and  the  historians  of  the  city  delight  to  tell 
how  foxes  and  other  wild-animals  were  cap- 
tured in  the  very  churchyard.  The  interior 
of  the  church  was  destroyed  by  fire  in  1S66, 
but  it  was  soon  repaired,  and  may  now  be 
seen  in  its  original  form. 


CHELSEA    VILLAGE 


J 


4 

J 
J 

U 

«> 

J 


1^1 

r 

^ 

Csi 

- 

CHELSEA    VILLAGE 

LIKE  the  scientist  who  unearths  the 
crumbling  bones  of  some  animal  of 
a  prehistoric  age,  and  from  them  re- 
constructs the  whole  framework,  the  dreamer 
of  a  by-gone  day  can  evolve  the  Village  of 
Chelsea  from  the  survivals  that  may  yet  be 
seen.  These  survivals  are  tucked  away  beside 
towering  warehouses,  hidden  behind  teeming 
tenements,  and  'tis  no  easy  task  to  conjure  up 
a  country  village  in  the  midst  of  a  noisy, 
bustling  city.  In  doing  so,  there  are  com- 
monplace things  to  be  thrust  aside,  and  sordid 
things  to  be  forgotten.  He  who  attempts  it 
must  be  a  dreamer  content  to  forego  the 
practical  present,  and  able  to  supply,  often  by 
the  aid  of  imagination  alone,  missing  links 
at  every  turn.      Still   there   is  something  left, 

\.U3i 


CHELSEA   VILLAGE 

something  to  work  upon,  a  good  beginning, 
an  important  bone,  as  it  were — and  that  is  a 
good  deal, 

'Twere  best  to  make  a  start  on  a  day  in 
early  fall  ;  in  the  morning,  when  the  fog 
hangs  heavy,  or  when  a  drizzling  rain  sets  a 
blur  on  all  things,  makes  brilliant  show  win- 
dows seem  dingy,  deadens  the  very  sound  of 
rumbling  trains  and  clanging  bells — such  a 
day  when  there  is  no  light  of  sun  to  flash  on 
marble  walls,  or  to  show  the  hideousness  of 
accumulated  dirt,  a  day  when  few  people  are 
out  of  doors. 

I  doubt  if  in  all  the  city  there  is  another 
such  perfect  bit  of  Old  New  York  as  may  be 
come  upon  in  Twenty-fourth  Street,  after 
passing  Ninth  Avenue,  going  westward  toward 
the  river.  All  the  iconoclastic  changes  re- 
ferred to  as  '*  modern  improvements  "  have 
not  been  able  to  eflface  the  antiquarian  beauty 
of  this  trace  of  old  Chelsea  Village.     There 

[334] 


CHELSEA   VILLAGE 

they  are,  just  after  you  turn  the  corner,  wee, 
beautiful  little  houses,  still  known  as  the 
Chelsea  Cottages,  looking  as  though  they  had 
been  quietly  asleep  ever  since  the  grim  town 
crept  up  to  and  overwhelmed  the  village. 
Tiny  structures,  the  oddest  of  all  having 
green-painted,  wooden  shutters  long  out  of 
fashion.  All  with  most  un-city-like  little 
gardens  in  front,  with  grass  and  flowers  en- 
closed by  a  wrought-iron  fence  of  curious 
design,  such  a  fence  as  you  may  have  read  of, 
but  have  never  seen. 

In  this  quiet,  peaceful  village  street,  that 
has  in  some  way  hidden  itself  so  that  it  has 
not  been  crushed  out  of  existence,  one  may 
find  many  things  that  have  so  outlived  their 
day  as  to  be  attractive  now  as  curios ;  such 
things  as  carved  doorways  and  brass  knockers, 
and  latticed  iron  porches ;  and  there  is  even 
one  house  which  has  a  peaked  roof  that  is 
quite  as  high  as  the  rest  of  the  building. 

L335] 


CHELSEA   VILLAGE 

Around  the  corner  in  Twenty-third  Street 
is  a  long  row  of  houses  planned  when  the 
village  was  young,  but  the  changes  of  the 
passing  years  have  encroached  heavily  upon 
the  London  Terrace,  have  transformed  houses 
into  *'  flats,"  and  have  done  all  manner  of  in- 
ternal damage.  Nevertheless,  time  has  dealt 
lightly  with  the  exteriors,  and,  although  the 
pretty  gardens  have  deteriorated  into  **  front 
yards,"  there  are  still  great  weather-beaten 
trees,  whose  whispering  branches  tell  tales  of 
their  beginning.  But  now  let  imagination 
wield  the  brush.  Blot  out  the  long  row  of 
houses  across  the  way  from  London  Terrace, 
for  there  is  where  Chelsea  Village  really  had 
its  start.  A  century  and  a  half  ago,  when 
here  was  country-side,  when  as  far  as  the  eye 
could  reach  in  all  directions,  save  to  the 
south,  there  was  no  sign  of  human  habitation, 
and  when  the  Fitzroy  Road  led  this  way  from 
Greenwich  Village,  a   mile  away  there  to  the 

[336] 


CHELSEA   VILLAGE 

south,  and  quite  midway  between  this  spot 
and  the  city,  where  the  row  now  stands  was 
a  hill  that  swept  its  green  way  gently  to  the 
river.  And  there  on  the  hill.  Captain 
Thomas  Clarke,  an  old-time  gentleman  and 
veteran  of  the  French  and  Indian  wars,  built 
a  house,  intending  to  spend  there  the  final 
years  of  his  life.  He  called  it  Chelsea,  re- 
membering the  retreat  of  that  name  in  Eng- 
land, where  many  brave  fighters  spent  the 
twilight  of  their  lives,  and  where  they  sur- 
rendered to  the  Great  Commander  in  their 
last  battle,  the  battle  of  life.  But  'twas  the 
irony  of  fate  that  Captain  Clarke,  when  he 
had  built  his  house  and  was  living  quietly  in 
it,  should  fall  ill,  that  the  building  should  be 
burned,  and  he,  being  carried  to  a  friend's, 
very  soon  died  there. 

Mistress  Mollie  Clarke  rebuilt  the  home 
and  lived  there  with  her  two  daughters,  and 
was    living    there    a   quiet    and    peaceful   life 

[337  J 


CHELSEA   VILLAGE 

when  came  the  War  of  the  Revolution.  As 
she  was  a  strong  RoyaHst,  together  with  many 
of  her  friends  in  the  city,  she  might  have 
fled.  But  she  said  she  could  not  see  who 
would  molest  her  in  her  quiet  retreat.  For 
all  that,  she  was  molested,  for  one  day  a 
squad  of  Continental  soldiers,  having  been 
billeted  upon  the  widow,  rode  up  to  her  door, 
and,  notwithstanding  that  she  protested  vig- 
orously, took  up  their  abode  there.  But  the 
Widow  Clarke  would  not  give  in  without 
making  a  strong  effort,  and  so  had  quick 
word  sent  to  General  Washington,  who  was 
then  in  the  city,  asking  him  by  what  right 
he  sent  his  soldiers  there.  On  the  very  next 
day  Washington,  with  his  escort,  rode  out 
from  the  city  along  the  Bloomingdale  Road, 
to  where  Madison  Square  is  now,  turning 
into  a  by-way  called  Love  Lane  (which  was 
about  within  the  limits  of  the  present  Twen- 
ty-first   Street),    that    led    beneath    spreading 


CHELSEA    VILLAGE 

trees  to  the  door  of  Mistress  Mollie  Clarke. 
She  received  the  great  man  coolly,  but  he  ad- 
dressed her  with  such  kindly  dignity  that  she 
soon  softened  and  invited  him  into  her  best 
room.  And  there  she  had  from  him  his 
promise  that  he  would  see  to  it  that  the  sol- 
diers should  be  of  no  annoyance  to  her. 
When  he  arose  she  courtesied,  and  he  bowed 
•and  was  gone  from  Chelsea. 

But  although  Washington  could  control 
his  own  men  ever  so  well,  he  certainly  could 
not  (up  to  that  time,  at  least)  control  the 
British  ships  that  were  in  the  bay  ;  and  not 
many  days  after,  one  of  them  went  sailing 
defiantly  up  the  Hudson  River  and  sent  a  few 
shots  crashing  into  the  little  town,  aim- 
ing a  few  more  at  the  scattered  houses  along 
the  river-shore  ;  and,  as  cannon-shot  are  not 
discriminating  things  and  care  no  more  for 
the  houses  of  friends  than  the  dwellings  of 
foes,  one  of  these  shots  struck   the   house   of 

[339] 


CHELSEA   VILLAGE 

Mistress  Mollie  Clarke  and  went  tearing 
through  it.  Mistress  Clarke  was  away  at  the 
time,  and  one  of  the  billeted  soldiers,  meet- 
ing her  upon  the  road  soon,  called  out, 
'*  Your  friends  have  rent  your  house  in  twain." 
And  she,  when  she  understood,  cried  out, 
with  a  vigorous  shake  of  her  head,  "  I  can 
thank  you  for  that."  The  shot  did  no  more 
damage  than  to  cut  a  great  hole  in  one  side, 
which  was  quickly  repaired  ;  but  this  left  a 
scar  that  Mistress  Clarke  used  to  point  out,  as 
an  injury  caused  by  her  enemies,  until  the 
day  of  her  death,  in   1802. 

By  that  time  some  few  houses  had  begun 
to  cluster  about  the  Chelsea  house,  and  the 
village  seemed  naturally  to  take  its  name  from 
it.  It  was  now  occupied  by  the  learned  and 
benevolent  man  Benjamin  Moore,  who  was 
respected  as  the  husband  of  Charity  Clarke 
and  honored  as  the  Episcopal  Bishop  of  New 
York.     This  illustrious  man  was  held  in  high 

[340] 


CHELSEA    VILLAGE 

affection  and  esteem,  and  his  friends  were 
many.  During  the  thirty-seven  years  he  was 
connected  with  Trinity  Church,  the  parish 
register  shows  that  he  celebrated  3,500 
marriages  and  baptized  3,000  persons.  He 
was  President  of  Columbia  College  from 
1 80 1  to  181  I  ;  he  was  the  tirst  \'ice- 
President  of  the  Historical  Society  when 
it  was  formed,  in  1805.  It  was  he  who 
administered  the  last  sacrament  to  Alexander 
Hamilton  after  the  duel  with  Aaron  Burr, 
and  who  remained  by  his  bedside  when  he 
drew  his  last  breath.  Here  the  good  bishop 
lived  and  here  he  died,  and  then  the  old  house 
and  its  grounds  passed  on,  in  the  vear  1S16, 
to  his  son,  Clement  C.  Moore,  who  added 
still  further  to  the  estate  by  purchasing  much 
of  the  neighboring  property  ;  and  thus  the 
struggling  little  village  grew  stronger  under 
his  fostering  care. 

Clement  C.  Moore  was  a  learned  man  and 

[34.] 


CHELSEA   VILLAGE 

a  kindly  scholar.  He  was  a  professor  of  He- 
brew and  Greek  literature  in  Columbia  Col- 
lege and  wrote  valuable  books.  But  these 
works  are  for  the  most  part  forgotten  now, 
except  by  a  few  learned  men,  and  his  memory 
lives  best  through  a  little  poem  composed  for 
his  children  in  this  Chelsea  house,  a  poem 
that  has  brightened  the  holiday  of  many  a 
child.      It  begins  with  the  line — 

"  'Twas  the  night  before  Christmas." 

Part  of  this  land,  owned  by  Clement  C. 
Moore,  was  a  field  with  an  orchard,  enclosed 
by  post  and  rail  fences;  and  the  village  of 
Chelsea,  still  only  a  score  of  houses,  awoke 
one  morninp;  to  find  itself  linked  with  the 
city  for  all  time.  For  this  field  had  been 
given  away  by  the  owner,  and  the  Gener- 
al Theological  Seminary  of  the  Episcopal 
Church  was  to  be  built  upon  it,  the  old  field 
taking   the    name    of    Chelsea    Square.      And 

[342] 


CHELSEA   VILLAGE 

there,  in  1825,  came  into  existence  the  first 
of  the  seminary  buildings,  called  the  East 
Building.  Ten  years  later  the  West  Building 
was  erected,  made  of  rough-hewn  stone,  and 
its  ivy-covered  walls  are  still  standing.  From 
that  time  on,  the  village  grew  up  in  earnest 
around  Chelsea  Square,  with  quaint  little 
houses  on  tree-lined  roads,  each  with  its  own 
pretty  garden.  It  never  really  had  any  streets 
of  its  own,  for  even  these  lanes  followed  the 
lines  of  the  City  Plan  mapped  out  in  1807, 
which  provided  streets  for  the  entire  Isl- 
and of  Manhattan.  So  that  when  the  town 
stretched  as  far  as  Chelsea,  the  city  streets 
and  the  village  lanes,  although  starting  from 
widely  different  points,  were,  in  truth,  but 
two  divisions  of  a  system,  and  melted  into 
one  another,  leaving  no  trace  of  where  one 
ended  and  the  other  began. 

And  this  was  the  disappearance  of  Chelsea 
Village   to    the    minds    of    all    the    hurrying, 

L343J 


CHELSEA   VILLAGE 

rushing  business  folk  who  have  no  time  or 
inclination  to  read  the  romance  of  a  buried 
past. 

But,  for  all  that,  much  of  the  old  village 
still  exists,  hidden  behind  the  houses  that 
have  smothered  it,  its  old  frameworks  rot- 
ting away  in  the  midst  of  the  built-up  blocks. 
To  the  casual  passer-by,  the  streets  of  Chelsea 
district  are  so  alike  that  they  seem  to  lack  in- 
dividuality, yet  there  is  scarce  one  of  them  but 
has  some  unique  feature.  Sometimes  they  are 
so  buried  that  only  a  view  from  a  house-top 
will  disclose  them.  Walk  through  Twentieth 
Street,  toward  the  west,  and  before  you  come 
to  Eighth  Avenue  you  cannot  fail  to  see,  in 
half  a  dozen  places,  little  passages  through 
the  houses  from  the  street ;  not  halls,  not 
even  alleys,  just  narrow,  black,  gloomy  tun- 
nels, that  present  doorless  openings.  Go 
into  any  of  these,  stumble  through  the  dark- 
ness, and,  in  a  few  steps,  you  come  into  the 
light    at    the    other    end  !      It  is   like  explor- 

[344] 


CHELSEA   VILLAGE 

ing  an  unknown  country,  a  little  American 
Pompeii  of  our  own.  Here  is  a  paved  way, 
so  narrow  that  3  ou  can  easily  span  it  with 
outstretched  arms.  It  is  a  hidden  street,  and 
along  it  are  low,  wooden  houses,  in  a  totter- 
ing old  age.  These,  in  their  early  days, 
faced  on  one  of  the  Chelsea  lanes. 

Back  through  the  tunnel-way  again,  walk 
on  toward  the  river,  and  come  to  the  church 
of  St.  Peter,  too  low  built,  too  lacking  in 
pretentiousness,  to  be  a  product  of  this  day. 
This  was  the  church  of  the  old  village.  On 
its  walls  you  may  read  a  memorial  to  Clem- 
ent C.  Moore,  the  simple  record  of  a  long 
life.  It  was  by  his  generous  gifts  that  this 
church  was  raised,  and  here  he  attended  ser- 
vice, where  his  life  and  his  good  works  were 
known  to  every  man.  \'et  now  his  very 
name  is  heard  with  strangeness  by  the  dwell- 
ers in  this  historic  district,  thus  once  more 
proving  that  a  prophet  is  sometimes  unre- 
membered  in  his  own  village. 

L345J 


CHRONOLOGICAL   TABLE    OF 
IMPORTANT   DATES 


1614. 
1626. 
1633- 
1637- 
1638. 
1641 . 


181 
182 
,182 
120 
183 
183 


1642 107, 230,  324 

1647 49>  124.  313 

165 1 50 

1654 38 

1658 185 

1659  263 

1 660 61 

1664 185 

1673 139.  189 

1674 187 

1681 131 

1684 186 

1688 230 

1689  187 

1691  232,  324 

1693 327 

1694 188 

1695 28 

1702 28,  189 

1704 230 

1714 189 

1716 323 

1725 28 


DATE  PAGE 

1730 201,  236 

1733 I.  9,  52 

1735 IS8,  274 

1738 269 

1740 189,  231 

1741 95,  128,  190 

1745 104 

1 750 287,  290 

1760 52,  55,  237 

1761 158 

1 762 106,  274 

1763 - 310 

1764 76 

1765 20,  28 

1 766 20,  323 

1768 22,  47 

1770 10,20,  127 

1771 270 

1773 190 

1775 86,  105 

1776 42,  79,  109,  127,  145 

1780 146,  221 

1787 190,  328 

1789 79 

1 791 190 

1796 160,  202,  241 

1798 .291 

1 799 56 

1801 343 


[347J 


CHRONOLOGICAL   TABLE 


DATE                               PAGE 
1803 292 

1805 343 

I  806 284 

1807.... 175,  2J2,  345 

1809 95,  96 

1 8 10 203 

1811 343 

181 2 144 

1814 273 

1815 190,  331 

1816 343 

1817 225 

1818 219,  220,  221 

1820 56,  267 

1821 85,  308 

1822 98 

1823 57,  83,  147,  222 

1825 217,  219,  235.  345 

1826 57,  130 

1827 295 

1828 139 


DATE  PAGE 

1833 108,  155,  157 

1834 22,  77 

1835 145. 223, 328 

1836 158 

1838 203 

1839 49.  153-  158 

I84I 56,  158, 277 

1842 331 

1844 113.  155 

1848 156 

1851 41 

1852 153.  162 

1853 162,  163,  295 

1855 56 

1856 131,  166,  209,  214 

1866 331 

1867 172 

1875 331 

1886 48,  127,  235 

1894 147 


[348] 


INDEX 


Andre,  Major  Johx,  312 

Astor  Place,  55,  290 

Astor  Place  Opera  House,  56 


Barent  Islands,  142,  144 

Barnum's  Museum,  158,  159 

Battery,  The,  181,  186-190 

Battery  Park,  189 

IJattle  of  Long  Island,  42 

Baxter  Street,  48 

Bayard's  Mount,  289 

Bear  Market,  271 

Beaver's  Lane,  104 

Beaver's  Path,  64 

Beekman  Hill,  311 

Beekman  House,  311 

Beekman  Street,  158 

Belle  Isle,   144 

Blackwell,  Robert,  139 

Bhickwell's  Island,  136,  139,  297 

Bleecker  Street,  94 

Blon,  Barent,   142 

Bloomingdale  Road,  161,  162 

Bonneville,  Madame,  96 

Bouwerie  Lane,  50,  123 

Bouwerie  Village,  55,  63,  169-177 

Bouwerie  Village  Graveyard,  169- 

177 
Bouvveries,   123 
Bowery,  The,  50,  123,  129 
Bowery  Road,  50,  290 


Bowery  Theatre.  51,  130 

Bowling  Green,  3-15,  37.  63, 
loi,  119,  181,  228,  261 

Bowling  Green  Garden,  288 

Breevoort  House,  305 

Brick  Presbyterian  Church,  115, 
321 

Bridewell,  115 

British  ammunition  wagons  capt- 
ured, 1775,  105 

Broad  Street,  65,  104,  229 

Broadway,  10,  63,  87,  loi,  266, 
267 

Bull's  Head  Tavern,  51 

Bunker  Hill,  289 

Burgher's  Path,  272 

Burr,  Aaron,  95 

Burton's  Chambers  Street  Theatre, 
156 


Cafe    Des    Milles    Colonnes, 

154 
Canal  Street,  201 
Chambers  Street,  153 
Chatham,  Earl  of,  48 
Chatham  Square,  49,  II9-131 
Chatham  Street,  47,  127,  152 
Chatham  Theatre,  49,  151 
Chelsea  Cottages,  335 
Chelsea  Village,  333-345 
Cherry  Gardens,  210 


[349] 


INDEX 


Cherry  Hill,  207-225 
Cherry  Street,  213,  220 
Christmas  in  New  Amsterdam,  61- 

72 
Chrystie  Street,  55 
Church  Street,  157 
City  Hall,  238 

City  Hall  in  Wall  Street,  103 
City  Hall  of  New  Amsterdam,  108 
City  Hall  Park,  114,  241 
City  Plan,  58 
City  Prison,  204 
Clarke,  Captain  Thomas,  337 
Clarke,  Mistress  MoUie,  337 
Clinton,  De  Witt,  55,  84 
Clinton  Hall,  55 
Coenties  Slip,  231,  232 
Collect  Pond,  84,  115,  193-204 
Colles,  Christopher,  84 
Colonnade  Row,  57 
Common,  The,  69,  268 
Contoit's  Garden,  282 
Corner  grocery,  276 
Corner  saloon,  276 
Cushman,  Charlotte,  51 
Custom-house,  190 
Cuyler's  Alley,  233,  234 


Declaration  ofIxdepexdexce, 

104,  114 
De  Groot,  Emanuel,  124 
De  Lancey,  Etienne,  106,  237 
De  Lancey,  James,  52,  237 
De  Lancey,  Susannah,  95 
Delancey  Street,  55 
De  VoQr  Farm-house,  298-300 
De  Voor's  Mill-stream,  307 


East  India  Company,   Dutch, 

181 
East  River,  42,  64 
East  River  islands,  135-147 
Ellet's  Alley,  232 
Emmet,  Thomas  Addis,  85 
Erie  Canal,  84 
Erie  Canal  Celebration,  161 
Exchange  Alley,  236 

First  Jewish  Synagogue,  232, 

233 
First  Presbyterian  Church,  319-321 
First  printing  press,  108 
First  town  market,  261 
First  water  works,  84 
Five  Points,  128,  193,  194 
Fly  Market,  27,  129,  265 
Fort  Amsterdam,  5,  182,  184 
Fort  Anne,  189 
Fort  George,  190 
Fort  James,  185 
Fort  Manhattan,  181 
Fort  William,  187 
Fort  William  Hendrick,  187 
Franconi's  Hippodrome,  163-166 
Franklin  House,  213,  214 
Franklin  Market,  275 
Franklin  Square,  28,  213,  222 
Franklin,  Walter,  213,  222 
Fraunces's  "  Black  Sam,"  106,  214 
Fraunces's  Tavern,  106 
Fresh  Water  Pond,  197 
"  Frying  Pan,"  The,   142 

Garden  Street  Church,  325 
Gas,  first  dwelling  lighted  by,  219 


l3so^ 


INDEX 


Gas,  first  theatre  lighted  by,  51 
General  Theological  Seminary,  342 
George  III.,  loi 
Gibson,  Sandy,  141 
Gold  Street,  21 
Golden  Hill,  19,  113 
Golden  Hill,  Battle  of,  20 
Golden  Hill  Inn,  20,  113 
Government  House,  14,  15,  190 
Great  Barent  Island,  142 
Great  fire  of  1833,  loS 
Great  Queen  Street,  28 
Greenwich  Avenue,  57 
Greenwich  Village,  47,  58,  9I-98, 

288 
Grove  Street,  94,  97 


Hale,  Nathan,  312 
Hanover  Square,  231 
Hartfordshire  and  Yorkshire  Tav 

em,  104,  229 
Heere  Gracht,  64 
Heere  Straat,  63,  69 
Hell  Gate,  140 
Hidden  graveyard,  245-257 
Hoegh  Street,  231 
"  Hog's  Back,"  142 
Huguenot  church,  230 
Huzzar,  British   frigate,  146,    221, 

222 


Indian  Village,  196 

Indian  War,  183 

Inland  Road  to  Greenwich,  47-58 

Irving,  Washington,  57,   140 

Italian  Opera  House,  157 


"  Jack  Knife,"  21 

James  II.,  186,  187 

James,  Duke  of  York,  185,  186 

Jefferson  Market,  57 

Jewish  graveyard,  131 

John  Street,  22 

John    Street    Methodist    Episcopa 

Church,  22 
John  Street  Theatre,  22 


Kalch  Hook,  196 

Kieft,    Governor    William,   6,    50, 

107,  120,  183,  231 
King's  College,  109,  115 
King's  Head  Tavern,  27 
Kip,  Ilendrick,  38 
Kip,  Jacob,  35 
Kip's  Bay,  35-44 
Kirby,  J.   Hudson,  151 
Kirby  used  to  die,  Where,  49 
Kissing  Bridge,  49,  308 


Lafayette  Amphitheatre,  160 

Lafayette  Place,  56,  293 

Lafayette  Theatre,  162 

La  Grange  Terrace,  57 

La  Montagne,  Dr.,  41 

La  Montagne,  Marie,  38   • 

Land  Gate,  63,  69 

Laurens  Street,  160 

Leland  Island,  147 

Leisler,  Jacob,  9,  187 

Leonard  Street,  157 

Liberty  Pole,  20,  114 

Lispenard,  Leonard,  201 

Lispenard's  Meadow,  1 15,  202,  285 


l35'j 


INDEX 


Little  Barent  Island,  143 
Little  Hell  Gate,  144 
London  Terrace,  336 
Lovelace,  Governor,  139 


Macready-Forrest  Riots,  56 
Madison  Square,  162 
Magapolensis,  Dominie,  71 
Maiden  Lane,  23,  266 
Manning,  John,  136,   139 
Manning's  Island,  136,  139 
Marble  Cemetery,  245-257 
Market-field,  231 
Meal  Market,  272 
Meiser's  Dock,  271 
Middle  Dutch  Church,  no 
Mile  Stone,  52 
Mill  Rock,  141 
Mill  Street,  131,  233 
Minetta  Brook,  94 
Minnahannonck,  139 
Minuit,  Governor  Peter,  182 
Montagnie's  Inn,  281 
Montgomery,  Richard,  86 
Montressor's  Island,  144 
Monument  Lane,  57,  58 
Moore,  Benjamin,  340 
Moore,  Clement  C. ,  341,  342,  345 
"Mouse-trap,"  The,  91-98 
Mulberry  Bend,  128,  194 
Mulberry  Street,  128,  289 
Murray  Hill,  44 


"Negro"  Point,  142 

New    Amsterdam     in     1660,     61- 

72 
New  Bowery,  130 
New  York  Garden,  282 
New  York  Hospital,  287 
Niblo's  Garden,  154 
North  Brother  Island,  145 
North  Dutch  Church,  326 

Oswego  Market,  267 


Paine,  Thomas,  96,  97 
Palmo,  Ferdinand,  154-157 
Park  Row,  47,  115,  127,  153 
Park  Theatre,  159,  160,  238,  241 
Pauper  graveyard,  57 
Pearl    Street,    28,    64,    108,     215, 

223 
Peck  Slip,  231 
Pell  Street,  49 
Penitentiary,  96 
Petticoat  Lane,  104,  229 
Pie  Woman's  Lane,  24,  no 
Pitt,   William,    Earl    of   Chatham, 

48,  127 
Plaine,  The,  5,  63,  69,  230 
Piatt  Street,  21 
Pleasure  Gardens,  279-293 
Post  Office,  114 
Post  Road,  50,  115 
"  Pot  Rock,"  142 
Purdy's  National  Theatre,  153 


Nassau  Street,  24 
National  Theatre,  158 
Negro  Insurrection,  128 


Queen's  Head  Tavern,  214 
Queen  Street,  28,  213,  215 


[J  5^-] 


INDEX 


Raisin  Street,  98 

Randall's  Island,  145 

Ranelagh,  285 

Reason  Street,  97 

Richmond  Hill  House,  Greenwich 

Village,  95 
Riker's  Island,  146 
Riley's  Fifth  Ward  Hotel,  128 
Rivington  Street,  52 
Roosevelt  Street,  I96 
Rutgers,  Anthony,  201,  285 


Sacket,  Richard,  210 

St.  Ann's  Roman  Catholic  Church, 

56 
St.  George's  Square,  222 
St.  John's  Church,  239-241 
St.  John's  Lane,  241 
St.  Mark's  Church.  171-175 
St.  Nicholas,  Patron  Saint  of  New 

Amsterdam,  65 
St.  Patrick's  Church,  329 
St.  Paul's  Chapel,  75-88 
St.  Paul's  Churchyard,  75-88 
St.  Peter's  Church,  345 
Second  Avenue,  44 
Shell  Point,  196 
Shot  Tower,  306 
Slave  Market,  272 
Smith's  V'lei,  27 
South  Brother  Island,  145 
South  William  Street,  131 
Sports  in  New  Amsterdam,  69 
Spring  Valley  Farm,  297-316 
Stadt  Huys,  108,  230 
Stone  Street,  231 
Stoppani's  baths,  155 


Stuyvesant,  Governor  Peter,  6,  58, 

70,  108,  124,  171-176.  185 
Sunken  Meadow,  144 


Tea- Water  Pump,  49 
Temple,  Charlotte,  49 
Temple  Court,  158 
Thalia  Theatre,  51 
Thames  Street,  236 
Theatre  Alley,  238,  239 
Thompson,  Corporal,  162,  165 
Times  Building,  115 
Tinpot  Alley,  235 
Tombs  Prison,  203 
Trinity  Church,  79 


Unxle  Tom's  Cabin,  46,  153 


Van  Twiller,  Governor,   142, 

144,  182 
Van  Twiller's  farms,  142 
Van  Twiller's  Island,  142 
Vauxhall  Garden  (first),  288 
Vau.\hall  Garden  (second),  289 
Vauxhall  Garden  (third),  56,  290 
Virgin's  Path,  24 
Vlei  Market,  262 


Wall  Street,  271     , 
Wallack,  J.  W.,  158 
Wallack,  Lester,  51 
Walton  House,  216 
Ward's  Island,  142,  143 
Warren,   Admiral  Peter,   95,    104, 
2U 


[353] 


INDEX 

Washington,  George,    22,   28,    31,  Whitehall,  65,  72 

44,  52,  78,  79,  80,  102,  106,  J 29,  Willett,  iNIarinus,  105 

213,  338  William  III.,  28 

Washington's  Home,  213,  215  William  and  Mary,  187 

Washington  Market,  271  William  Street,  24 

Washington  Square,  57  William  the  Testy,  6,  108 

Water  Gate,  62  Wolfe,  General,  58 

Water  Works  (first),  84  Wreck  Brook,  197,  202 
West    India  Company,    181,    184, 

185 

Wheatley,  Julia,  158  York,  James,  Duke  of,  185,  186 


[354] 


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